In the Blood (33 page)

Morgan gazed down at Fell with cold disdain. "Ah, the recklessness of youth!" He
knelt beside the writhing young man and caressed Fell's cheek with the ball of his
thumb as he spoke. "Ready to snap the leash and bound, unhindered, into the
world, as spry and eager as a pup at play! Is that what you want, child? Freedom?"

Fell tried to speak, but all that came from his mouth was a bubble of bloody froth.

You don't have to answer me-I can see it in your eyes. You're still human enough to
believe in such garbage, I fear. And it's contaminated you beyond redemption."

Morgan shook his head sadly. "What is freedom but a chance to starve to death? To
die at the hands of those who fear you? If you went to the zoo and threw open the
doors of the tiger's cage, would it leap free of its prison and run wild in the streets,
snacking on infants snatched from their perambulators before catching a
policeman's bullet between its eyes? Or would it simply yawn and go back to sleep,
the concept of freedom-indeed, of life beyond the confines of its cage-completely
without meaning?"

Morgan kissed Fell's sweaty brow gently, like a father bidding his young son good
night. "You should have stayed in the cage, Fell," he murmured. "You are no
longer of use to me. Pity. You showed such promise in therapy."

Morgan picked up the letter opener Fell had dropped, turning it about between his
agile fingers. He ran his thumb down the length of the obsidian blade, watching his
blood boil forth like brackish water. His thumb sealed itself before the thick, foul-smelling liquid had time to stain the carpet.

"Give me your hand."

The command was quiet, almost gentle. Fell gritted his teeth and tried to keep his
right arm from unfolding. Although his muscles groaned like rotten mooring ropes,
there was no escaping the vampire lord's will.

Morgan placed the letter opener in Fell's rigid, trembling hand, wrapping the
youth's fingers around the hilt.

"You know what to do," whispered Morgan as he stood, his eyes fixed on the boy
stretched out at his feet.

Fell ground his teeth together even harder, heedless of the blood filling his mouth as
his fangs shredded what was left of his lower lip. He tried to twist his head away
from the slowly approaching knifepoint, but it was no use. His body was no longer
his to control. He ordered his left hand to claw at his right hand, to try and knock
the letter opener from its grasp, but it remained paralyzed. He screamed, but all
that escaped his constricted larynx was a tight, doglike whine.

When the point of the blade punctured his right eye like an overripe grape, he

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managed a short, muffled shout of pain. Then, to his horror, his left hand rose of its
own volition and took the obsidian letter opener from his bloodstained right hand.

The left hand was faster than the right, piercing his remaining eye within a few
seconds.

The darkness was total, the pain beyond anything Fell had ever known in any life.

Then he felt the sharp edge of the blade as his left hand began rhythmically sawing
away at his neck. He continued trying to scream long after he'd severed his own
larynx.

Anise, I failed you. I failed Sonja. I failed Lethe. Forgive me, please. Forgive-

"What is this! There is a child?"

In his agony, Fell had forgotten that Morgan was in his mind as well as his body.

Morgan straddled the dying man's body, slapping the letter opener from Fell's grip.

Morgan grabbed Fell by his bloodied shirt front, making sure not to shake him so
hard his head would fall off.

"It was a trick, wasn't it? The child didn't die! It's still alive somewhere! Tell me
where, breeder! Tell me!"

Fell opened his mouth, but all that came out was a large, black bubble of blood. His
head tilted to the right at a sharp angle, the spinal cord nearly severed. He could feel
Morgan rooting inside his dying brain, searching for the memories concerning
Lethe's whereabouts. Blind and partially paralyzed, it was like being alone in a dark
house with a rabid, hungry animal.

"Tell me where it is, breeder, and I'll kill you fast!"

Fell raised his right hand, the fingers closing on his long, blonde hair. He'd fucked
up big time, and now he was paying for being a stupid jerk. He'd waltzed into
Morgan's trap like the world's biggest fool. He'd gotten a taste of being superhuman
and it had made him foolhardy. He was dying, but he'd be doubly damned if he'd
betray his own daughter to this monster. But Morgan was stronger, both physically
and mentally, and accustomed to getting what he wanted.

"Tell me, breeder!"

Fell wanted to say "fuck you," but since his larynx was severed, the best he could do
was grab a fistful of his own hair and give it one good, final yank.

Morgan yowled in rage as Fell's head dropped to the floor, coming to rest on the
stained Persian carpet. He let go of the body, kicking it a few times in frustration.

The sound of ribs snapping did little to assuage his anger. Wretched Fly watched his
master nervously.

"Send the pyrotic after Howell. Unplug its television and tell it there will be no more

Gilligan's Island
or
S.W.A. T.
until it brings the good doctor back to me! When I'm
through, it can use his corpse for a host."

"Very well, milord. And the rogue?"

"She's mine."

Sonja sat up, rubbing the back of her head. Her fingers came away sticky with
blood. She grunted and wiped her hand on her jacket. The kid was stronger than
she'd suspected.

She got to her feet, leaning heavily on the banister. Blue-black fireworks bouquets

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exploded behind her eyelids. Had she been human, the fall she'd taken would have
killed her. As it was, she'd suffered an insult to the brain that was far from
problematic. But that could wait. She had to find Fell. Make sure he was all right.

What did the young fool think he was doing, running off like that?

"Fell!" Her voice sounded weak in her ears, like that of an old woman. "Fell, where
are you?"

Her answer came in the form of a footfall at the top of the landing.

"Fell? Kid, are you okay?"

Fell lurched into sight, his tread heavy and unsteady.

Sonja shook her head, as if somehow denying what stood before her would change
it.

Fell's clothes were so black with blood they looked like someone had doused him
with a five-gallon can of paint at point-blank range. The corpse lifted its stiffening
right arm to display Fell's head, dangling by its long, yellow hair. The eyes had been
gouged out and the nose sliced off.

Dead fingers spasmed as the body went limp, collapsing on the landing. The head
bounced and rolled its way to the foot of the stairs, staring up at Sonja with its
ruined sockets.

Sonja's grief was so deep, so painful, it numbed her. Alone again. After so many
years of loneliness, she'd finally found others to share her life, her knowledge with,
only to have them snatched away from her within the span of a day. It wasn't fair.

From the darkness on the second floor came the sound of laughter.

She knew that laugh. She'd last heard it in London, over twenty years ago.

"I'm coming for you, bastard!" she whispered under her breath, her fingers closing
on the folded switchblade in her pocket. "And I'm gonna make you pay!"

She comes. And my hands shake in anticipation. Her aura precedes her, lighting her

way like foxfire. Did I create this magnificent creature? That I could have succeeded

by accident where my carefully laid plans failed so horribly is both fascinating and

humbling.

I must destroy her. Her very existence is a threat to my continuance. Yet I cannot help

but stand in awe of her
-
worship her.

She comes. And my hands burn when I think of her blood.

Palmer pressed his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the things eeling in
and out of his field of vision. They looked something like centipedes, except that they
were transparent and swam about in midair. If Howell saw them, he didn't seem to
mind; he was too busy checking his syringe for air bubbles to worry about extra-dimensional creatures in the rafters.

"Uh, look, Doc-If you're worried about getting away from Morgan, I'm sure Sonja
will be more than happy to help you in that area..."

"My dear Mr. Palmer," Howell sighed, slapping the inside of his elbow with his
index and middle fingers as he tried to raise a vein. "I have spent over five years in
the grip of one vampire. What makes you think I'd want to hand myself over to yet
another one?"

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"Sonja's not like Morgan."

"And rattlesnakes are nothing like Gila monsters." Howell deftly jabbed the loaded
hypo into his arm.

Watching Howell shoot up made Palmer want a cigarette. He winced and averted
his gaze.

Howell smiled wryly. "Go ahead and look away. I don't mind. Mainlining . isn't a
pretty sight, not even to junkies. You could jump me right now. Why don't you?"

Palmer shrugged. "I don't know." It was the truth.

Howell quickly untied the rubber tubing and flexed his elbow a few times. He turned
to face Palmer, his eyes dilating as the heroin rushed through his bloodstream. It
suddenly occurred to Palmer that, despite his appearance, Howell was only a couple
of years older than himself.

Howell removed the Luger from his pocket. Palmer tensed. The guy was a loon and,
as if that wasn't enough, a junkie to boot. There was no telling what he might decide
to do.

"I'm not proud of the things I have done in Morgan's service. But it's too late to
pretend they didn't happen or that I had no choice in the matter. I must admit that
the work challenged me, unlike anything else I've ever done in the private sector."

Howell handed the Luger back to Palmer, butt first. The detective muttered his
thanks and quickly returned it to his shoulder holster.

"I dug my grave years ago, Mr. Palmer. I am a dead man. The only question is
when my heart will stop beating. I do not expect to live terribly much longer. In fact,
I'd be surprised if I survive to see the dawn. But I warn you, do not trust your
champion simply because she is a woman. The females are even worse than the
males."

"Sonja's different-she's not like the others." He frowned as he listened to himself.

What he was saying sounded stupid, even deluded, but it was the truth. How could
he explain it to someone like Howell?

"You love her." The scientist's voice was flat, almost dead sounding, reminding
Palmer of Chaz's equally lifeless pronouncement.

"Yes. Yes, I do." He was surprised to hear himself admitting it out loud.

"They always love their masters. That's what makes them so loyal." Howell paused,
sniffing the air. "Is it my imagination, or do I smell barbecue?"

21

Sonja followed the trail of blood to the library, where Morgan was waiting for her.

She felt him as a Siamese twin senses its sibling's moods and health. It was a
dreadful, unwanted intimacy, and it made her want to retch.

"My child."

The library door opened of its own volition. A strange, flickering light the color of a
ripe bruise spilled into the hallway.

"Come forward, child. So I may look at you."

The voice was familiar, although it lacked the upper-class British accent it had
possessed when she'd first heard it in 1969.

She took a hesitant step into the purple-black light, shielding herself as best as she

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could from the siren song of his personality.

Morgan stood in front of a mammoth fireplace, dressed in a neatly tailored dinner
jacket and matching pants. His hair was bound in a ponytail by a black velvet cord.

His smile was brilliant as he studied her over the top of his aviator glasses.

The Other's voice hissed a warning from its place inside her head:
Don't be fooled by

the surface. You 're no longer a sixteen-year-old debutante. Look beyond the illusion.

See him for what he truly is!

Sonja's vision flickered as she shifted spectrums. Morgan's image warped and
twisted like a piece of cellophane held too close to a light bulb. His flesh lost its sun
worshipper's glow, fading until it resembled a mushroom coated with tallow. His
fingernails were long and curled, like those of a mandarin, and the gases of cellular
decay bloated his features. The smell that emanated from him reminded her of the
dead mouse she'd once found lodged in an old sofa bed. The very thought of this
putrescent monstrosity thrusting its rancid member into her was enough to make
her gorge rise, twenty years after the fact.