Chapter Six
Palmer shifted in his seat and tried to ride out the nicotine fit.
The flight was under six hours and therefore, according to FAA regulations, smoke-free. Palmer could feel the pack of Shermans calling out to him from inside his breast pocket, nestled against his heart like the picture of a loved one.
Sonja Blue sat beside him, mirrored shades in place, nonchalantly paging through an in-flight magazine. His companion was an up-to-date vampire - no crates packed with native earth for her. She believed in traveling first class.
"We should arrive at the airport within the next two hours. Pangloss said he'd have his car there to meet us. I have no reason not to believe him," she said without looking up from an article on Fun-Filled Florida Family Vacations.
Palmer nodded without saying anything. Personally, he considered Sonja's decision to meet with Pangloss something close to suicidal. At first he thought she'd used a devious form of mind control so he'd agree to come along, like she'd used on the security guards at the airport. The ones who'd demanded that she take the switchblade out of her pocket.
"What switchblade, officers?" she asked, holding up the ornately decorated knife. Her voice had been steady, without a tremor of fear.
"We're terribly sorry, ma'am. Our mistake. Have a nice flight," the security guards said, in unison, doing everything but tugging their forelocks as they backed away.
Palmer wanted to believe that his decision to become involved had been shaped by forces outside himself, that he had no say in what was happening around him, but that would be lying to himself. Like it or not, he needed her.
Disgruntled by where his thoughts were taking him, Palmer glanced at the night sky on the other side of the window and immediately wished he hadn't.
There were things sitting on the wing of the airplane.
At first he mistook them for children, although he had no idea what kids would be doing clinging to the aluminum skin of a DC-10, fifty thousand feet in the air. Then one of the frail figures stood up, unfurling its batlike wings as it embraced the jet stream, and shot up and away.
No, not children. At least not human ones.
There were at least six of the grayish-white creatures crawling up and down the length of the wing, their arms twice as long as their bodies. Their skulls were long and bullet-shaped, the bodies devoid of hair. As Palmer watched the things scuttle along, bellies pressed against the plane's vibrating skin, one by one they surrendered themselves to the winds. He was reminded of children taking turns on a tire swing.
One of the winged things caught some turbulence and struck the side of the plane near Palmer's window. He grimaced, expecting to hear a juicy thump as the creature hit, but there was no sound and no one else seemed to notice, not even Sonja. The thing peeled itself from the fuselage, peering through the window at Palmer.
The eyes were huge, lidless orbs the color of rancid butter that hovered over a tubelike proboscis that hung from the middle of its face. Along, worm-like tongue whipped out of the thing's snout, tasting the reinforced Plexiglas that separated it from Palmer. Satisfied that it couldn't get in, the creature began climbing back to the wing.
Palmer could feel cold sweat running down his brow. He tugged on Sonja's sleeve, gesturing to the window. "Am I seeing things?"
Sonja looked up from her magazine and leaned forward, peering into the dark on the other side of the window.
"There's nothing to worry about. They're real."
"Great." He pulled the plastic shade down with trembling fingers. "That's all I need right now."
Sonja shrugged. "They're just afreeti, that's all. Nothing to get upset about. They're a form of elemental. They like hitching rides on airplanes. They're harmless, unless you get a couple of warring tribes arguing over who gets to go first. The few humans who've seen them - or had the misfortune to be in a disputed plane - usually mistake them for gremlins."
Palmer wished he could light up. It was a lot easier to tell himself that this was all part of the rich and varied pageant of life if he could soothe his jangling nerves with a double lungful of nicotine.
Sonja was watching him from behind her reflective lenses. She leaned toward him, resting her hand atop his.
"Look, I know what you're going through is tough right now. But, believe me, you get used to it. I remember the first time I started 'seeing things.' I thought I was going nuts! And I didn't have someone to walk me through it, not at first. I didn't know when I saw something if it was real or if I was hallucinating. You've got to watch out for that. The seeing things that aren't there bit, I mean. It's some kind of defense mechanism the human brain sets up to protect itself. Most real psychics end up schizophrenic. Only two percent of all active sensitives manage to stay out of the funny farm."
Palmer found himself staring at her hand as it lay atop his own. This was the first time she'd touched him, outside of savin? his bewitched butt from the succubus, since their initial, accidental contact two nights ago. He was expecting her touch to be cold and clammy, like that of a corpse, but it wasn't. Actually, it was kind of nice. Suddenly the taste of Jimmy Eichorn's blood flooded his mouth.
He jerked his hand away from hers and stood up stiffly, trying to control the tightness in his throat. "Uh, yeah. Excuse me a minute, would you? I gotta go to the John."
Palmer screwed his mouth into a bitter grin as he made his way toward the first-class cabin's toilet. Christ, as if my world isn't complicated enough, I got a goddamned punkette vampire putting the moves on me! He shook his head in amazement. Well, I guess it could be worse. I could have the IRS after me.
Palmer tried the toilet door, found it locked, then noticed the OCCUPIED sign. Sighing, he folded his arms and glanced back down the aisle, idly scanning the handful of passengers who could afford to fly first-class domestic flights.
His gaze momentarily settled on a heavyset man in a rumpled business suit rooting through the contents of an attache case. Wisps of smoke wreathed the businessman's frowning face.
What the rack? I thought this was a nonsmoking flight! How come none of these tight-assed little bimbos haven't ragged his ass ? This guy on the board of directors? As Palmer stared harder at the florid-faced man, the smoke surrounding his head shifted and roiled, as if coming into sharper definition. Palmer's heart beat faster as he saw the shape crouched on the businessman's right shoulder. It looked like a squirrel monkey sketched by a skywriter and left to the mercies of a strong breeze.
Palmer quickly looked away, uncertain as to what it meant but certain a cigarette would help him deal with it, whatever it was. The restroom door opened and Palmer dived into its solitude without waiting for the previous occupant to completely clear the threshold. His hands were shaking as he slammed the bolt home and pressed his back against the door. Inches from his knees stood the undersized, uncomfortable airline toilet, its stainless steel bowl beaded with droplets of sky-blue disinfectant.
The equally tiny hand basin bruised his hip as he searched his pockets for a lighter. He glanced up at the smoke detector above his head and scowled.
They make such a big deal about how we shouldn't tamper with these damn things, so that probably means they 're pretty easy to fuck up. Still, the last thing I need is to have the bloody thing go off while I'm messing with it. Then all I get for my trouble is a snoot full of CO2 and a five-hundred-dollar fine slapped on me.
Palmer looked at the packet of Shermans liberated from his breast pocket, then backup at the plastic disc dangling over his head like an electronic Sword of Damocles.
Fuck it.
He stuck the cigarettello in his mouth and reached up to disconnect the smoke detector, giving himself a leg up on the edge of the toilet seat. As he did so, he found himself staring into the shatterproof mirror mounted over the sink.
Palmer snorted in self-derision. It was just like trying to cop a smoke in the boy's room at Mater Delarosa Junior High back in Akron. His hair was threaded with gray and he wore a tailored black trench coat instead of a school jacket, but essentially there wasn't that much difference between the fourteen-year-old Palmer who'd been suspended for smoking behind the gym and the thirty-nine-year-old preparing to hamstring the smoke detector. Except for the smoke-monkey perched on the adult Palmer's shoulder like Long John Silver's parrot.
"Yaaah!"
Palmer screamed the moment he saw the apparition, losing his balance and plunging one foot into the toilet. The fear he'd experienced at the sight of the smudged gray thing crouched on his shoulder was replaced by the far more practical terror of accidentally being sucked out through the toilet's little trapdoor. Swearing viciously, Palmer yanked himself free, falling against the door with a thump.
"Sir? Sir! Are you all right? Are you hurt? Can you hear me?" It was one of the stewardesses, sounding both solicitous and suspicious.
"I'm all right! Just had an... accident, that's all!" Palmer glowered at the dye staining his lower leg. Luckily, his pants and shoes were dark enough to hide the discoloration. He avoided looking in the mirror as he exited the cramped confines of the toilet, smiling sheepishly at the flight attendants grouped outside.
"Please take your seat, sir. We're preparing to make our approach to San Francisco International."
"What in the name of hell is wrong with you?"
"Huh! What?!" Palmer flinched as Sonja snapped at him. He'd paused to light his cigarette the moment they were free of the jet's confines, only to find himself staring at a grotesquely thin woman - with a huge smoke-monkey the size of a gorilla riding her back - dragging her luggage through the terminal.
The woman seemed oblivious to the Gargantua straddling her narrow shoulders. A filtered Pall Mall was clamped between her cranberry-red lips.
I've heard of Gorillas in the Mist, but this is the first time I've seen a gorilla made of mist! Palmer bit back a laugh he knew would sound too high-pitched and brittle to be mistaken for sane. He dropped the match cupped in one hand before it had a chance to burn him.
Sonja shook her head in disgust. "Come on, damn it! You'd think you'd never seen a tobacco demon before!"
Pangloss's chauffeur was waiting for them at the exit gate, holding a neatly printed cardboard placard that read S. Blue. They were shown to a stretch limo with tinted glass and a fully stocked bar in the back. Sonja hesitated a moment before climbing into the back seat.
"Something wrong, ma'am?" The driver's voice was as smooth and cold as glass.
"No, I was just remembering a limousine drive I took a long time ago."
The moment the door slammed shut behind them, Palmer popped one of his foul-smelling cigarettes into his mouth and opened the liquor cabinet. His hands were shaking.
"What's wrong?"
Palmer snorted, expelling a cloud of smoke. "What's right? That bastard tried to turn my brains into guacamole dip, and here we are riding in the back of his fuckin" limo! We're walking into a trap, for Christ's sake! It might as well have T-R-A-P spelled out in flashing neon letters!"
Sonja sighed and looked out the window. "Don't worry about Pangloss. I can handle him. He's not going to bother you. He got what he wanted. Adding you to his stable was a bonus - a little lagniappe."
"You sound real sure of yourself."
"Pangloss is crafty. I don't doubt he's got his own reasons for bringing me into this. But I don't care what they are. The only thing I'm interested in is Morgan."
"That's another thing - who is this guy Morgan, and why do you want his head on a spike?"
She glanced at him, the corner of her mouth lifting into a bitter smile.
"Ever hear of Thorne Industrials?"
"Old Jacob Thorne's one of the last 'bootstrap' millionaires, like Getty and Carnegie."
"Do you recall a kidnapping involving Thome's daughter? Her name was Denise."
Palmer frowned and nodded. "Now that you mention it - didn't she disappear sometime during the sixties?"
"No ransom demands were ever made and she was listed as missing. It was a long time back. Over twenty years. Long before they started putting pictures on the back of milk cartons - " Her voice was wistful.
"But what does that have to do with you?"
"In 1969 while on a vacation to London, Denise Thorne met a man who went by the name of Morgan. Lord Morgan. The title turned out to be real enough, but Morgan wasn't a man. He coerced Denise Thorne into taking a moonlight drive in his chauffeured limousine. It was all very romantic. Once they were alone, he raped her and drank her blood. He then threw her from the back of the moving car, leaving her for dead. By sheer luck, she was found and taken to the hospital, where she remained in a coma for nine months. Then I woke up."
"You're Denise Thorne." Palmer stared at her, cigarette smoldering, forgotten, between his fingers.
Sonja shrugged. "That is open to debate. But something in me used to be Denise Thorne. Perhaps still is." She returned her gaze to the window, staring at the dim outline of CandlestickPark as the limo sped along Highway 101. "There are a lot of things I do not know. But I do know one thing: I will send Morgan to hell, even if I have to take him there myself."
Pangloss's hideaway was in one of the older downtown skyscrapers. Dwarfed by Bauhaus-spawned megaliths like the Transamerica Pyramid, the DobbsBuilding dwelt in perpetual shadow.
The limo slid into the underground parking garage, depositing its riders before an old-fashioned elevator shaft secured by sliding metal gates. The driver spoke into a hand-mike attached to the radio, and the elevator car descended into view.
Sonja Blue stepped out of the limo, signaling for Palmer to follow. The elevator door opened and the protective gates folded back. The elevator operator, an old man in an ill-fitting uniform, gestured for them to enter. The interior of the car smelled of old leather and cigars.
Minutes later the car halted at the penthouse. The doors opened to reveal the hulking figure of an ogre blocking the way.
The ogre's massive jaw jutted forward, flaring his apelike nostrils. Palmer recognized him; the last time he'd seen him, he was chomping away on Renfield's left leg like a drumstick.
Palmer rolled his eyes. "I told you this was a bad idea."
The ogre's lips peeled back in a rictus grin, revealing teeth better suited for a shark's mouth.
"Keif! Heel! Heel, damn you!"
The ogre moved aside, permitting a narrow-shouldered man in a nondescript suit and tortoiseshell spectacles, a clipboard clutched to his chest, to step forward.
"I'm Doctor Pangloss's assistant. He's in the gymnasium right now. If you'd like to wait..."
"I'd like to see him. Now."
The assistant scowled at his clipboard. "I'm afraid that's not possible."
Sonja Blue stepped forward, pushing her face into his. "Now. "
The assistant's pale face grew even pastier. "Permit me to show you the way."
The gymnasium was larger than most of the apartments Palmer had lived in. Parallel bars and other acrobatic equipment were scattered about, while a state-of-the-art Nautilus machine crouched in one corner like a chromium spider. But what held their attention were the two men, dressed in the mesh faceguards and starched white tunics of professional fencers, dueling with sabers in the middle of the room.
As they watched, one of the duelists drove his weapon through his opponent's chest, neatly skewering the tunic's red heart. The wounded fencer, still clutching his saber, staggered backward, staring at the length of cold steel jutting from his breastbone. A dry chuckle emerged from inside the victor's visor as he turned to leave.
The moment his foe's back was turned, the wounded swordsman swung his blade, neatly decapitating his adversary in midstride. The head, still encased in the protective face guard, bounced a couple of times before rolling to a stop near Sonja's right foot.
Pangloss removed his own visor and tossed it aside, motioning for his assistant to pull the saber free of his chest. For the first time Palmer was able to see his erstwhile employer's eyes. They were the color of garnets, bisected by a narrow, reptilian pupil.
"I'm glad that's over and done with! What a bore! Always going on about those scars he got at Heidelberg. Why, I remember when Heidelberg was no more than a wide spot in the road!" He winced as the sword was removed. Blood the color and consistency of transmission fluid spurted briefly from the wound. "Ah! That's much better - it was starting to itch."
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Doctor?"
"That will be all, Renfield. I will see to our guest myself."
"Very good, sir. I'll have Keif dispose of Herr Gruenwald."
Palmer watched the pinch-faced young man exit the room, then swung to face Pangloss. "You called him Renfield!"
"What of it?" replied the vampire as he unfastened the buckles of his tunic.
"Renfield's dead! I saw him die!"
Pangloss sighed and his pupils flexed. "My dear Mr. Palmer, the world is full of renfields! Just like it's full of letter openers and paper clips. You don't christen each and every paper clip you use with its own name, do you? The operative our charming Ms. Blue terminated was one of my renfields. Just as you are one of hers."
Palmer felt his face color. "Hold it, buddy, I don't like what you're implying - !"
Sonja raised her hand for silence. "Stop baiting him, Pangloss. You lost out. You should have known something like that would happen when you sent a loose cannon to twist him."
"I prefer the term 'reprogram.' It sounds so much more up to date. Don't you agree?"
Sonja snorted and folded her arms across her chest. "I didn't come here to play word games, Herr Doktor. "
Pangloss clucked his tongue in disapproval. "The years have not improved your etiquette, my dear. You're just as blunt as ever. I guess that's what comes of being American." He shrugged free of the bloodstained tunic, revealing a hairless chest as pale as milk and covered with the faint traces of hundreds of crisscrossing scars.
The newest wound, the one piercing his heart, was already puckering into pink scar tissue. Palmer thought the vampire's exposed torso looked like a Braille road map. Without realizing it, he touched his own chest, tracing his near-fatal flaw. He wondered for a moment if Sonja's flesh was equally scarred, then hastily pushed the thought aside.
Pangloss strode across the room and removed a green silk dressing gown from a peg near the door. "You still cling to certain human conceits, such as the ludicrous idea that time is valuable. You're far too impatient, my dear! When will you realize that time is the one thing you have plenty of? Then again, I forget how young you are. You are indeed a prodigy, my dear. But, in many ways, you are a backward child. Come, let us retire to more amenable surroundings."
As they left the gymnasium, Palmer glanced over his shoulder and saw the ogre, Keif, enter from another door. As he watched, the ogre picked up the severed head of the ill-fated Herr Gruenwald from its resting place on the floor. The ogre shucked the head free of the fencing mask and grinned, revealing hideous teeth, and lifted the dead man's skull to its mouth. Palmer looked away, but he could still hear. It sounded just like someone biting into a big, crisp apple.
Marble art deco nymphs flanked the hearth while a panther carved from a single piece of obsidian crouched on the mantelpiece. There was a fire burning behind the ornate iron screen, but Palmer couldn't feel it. Perhaps it was just the notorious San FranciscoBay damp getting to him, but he doubted it.
Pangloss stood at the picture window, his back to his guests. The fog was heavy, obscuring what little view was available at two in the morning. The swirling gray mist reminded Palmer of the tobacco demons he'd seen earlier, so he returned his gaze to the fireplace.
"You said you know where Morgan is," Sonja said.
Pangloss glanced back over his shoulder. "I do."
"Well?"
"I would rather speak to you in private. Shall we retire to the patio?" Pangloss gestured to the sliding glass door that opened onto a rooftop garden.
Sonja glanced at Palmer, then nodded her assent. She followed the elder vampire onto the fog-enshrouded terrace. The sea air was sharp in her nostrils, reminding her of blood. The Other's voice stirred inside her head, admonishing her for having subsisted for so long on nothing but bottled plasma. She tried to ignore it; this was neither the time nor the place for the Other's yammering to put her off guard. Pangloss was dangerous. She'd learned that the hard way over a decade ago.
Pangloss stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring into the fog bank. "You've changed, my dear. Matured. I noticed it the moment I laid eyes on you. You're not as angry as you used to be."
"Me used to be angry young man, me hidin' me head in the sand."
"Beg pardon?"
"Let's just say I've discovered how to work within the system since the last time we met. I've learned to... focus myself. Now, about Morgan."
Pangloss turned to face her, and for a brief moment she was looking at an unwrapped mummy with red coals banked deep in its empty orbits. The vampire reached into the voluminous pockets of its dressing gown and retrieved an ivory cigarette holder with dry twig fingers. The first time she'd glimpsed Pangloss's true self she'd come close to screaming. But now, fifteen years later, his desiccated appearance seemed almost normal.
"Ah, yes... Morgan. It always comes back to Morgan, doesn't it?" His voice was melancholy. "He was my greatest mistake, just as you are his. However, in my case I created him with full knowledge of what I was doing. Or so I thought." Pangloss frowned and his features were once more those of a handsome middle-aged man. "It can be lonely for beings such as you and I. I'm certain you've discovered this for yourself by now. Alliances with humans are, by their very nature, destined to be brief.
"Speaking of which, I congratulate you on claiming Palmer as your renfield. He's much better spoken than that piece of trash you picked up in London. Tell me, does he still imagine himself the captain of his own will?"
"That's none of your damn business!"
Pangloss held up a hand in supplication. "You're quite right, my dear! That was rude of me! Now, where was I? When I was younger-younger than I am now - I longed for companionship. At the time, I fancied myself quite ancient - I was seven or eight hundred years old, which means it must have been either the eleventh or twelfth century. I was the same age as Morgan is now, if that means anything.
"I had grown bored and wished to have an equal as a companion. Since I was forced to recruit from serfs and peasants, with the occasional yeoman thrown in, the basic templates were far from the first quality. Most of my broodlings were unsuited for any intellectual pursuits beyond hunting down their next meal. Then I met Morgan.
"At that point, I was working for the Church as a gelder. The choirmasters sent their most promising sopranos to me for alteration into castrati. I was renowned for having a low mortality rate, at least by the standards of the day. It was a good cover, allowing me access to the Byzantine jealousies and infighting created when human sexuality is subverted. I fed well at the Vatican's expense for the better part of twenty years. But Morgan's arrival changed all that.
"He was only twelve when I first saw him, but I knew I had found what I had been searching for. He was the fifth son of a nobleman and had been forced into joining the Church. The original intention was for him to become a priest, but his excellent singing voice had drawn the attention of the choirmaster. Instead of castrating the boy, I took him with me when I abandoned my identity.
"It was the closest I had come to experiencing genuine passion since my resurrection.
"Morgan accepted me for what I was. His intellect was astounding, and he proved himself an apt pupil. We traveled Europe in the guise of uncle and nephew for several years. He longed to be transfigured, but I withheld my benediction until I was certain he was seasoned enough to survive the change intact. When he was thirty, I remade him in my image.
"My faith in his innate superiority was justified. Within ten years of his resurrection, Morgan had evolved beyond the crude revenant stage. I was proud of him! For two centuries he was my constant companion. I was his broodmaster, but I never abused my status. I allowed him far more liberty than I've granted any of my by-blows, before or since. In the end it cost me dearly.
"Morgan turned against me. I'd underestimated the strength of his will. And his guile. He came close to killing me - just as you did." Pangloss opened his robe and pointed at a long, ragged scar in the middle of his chest. Although she knew the wound had to be at least ten years old, it still looked fresh. "I nearly died from that silver blade of yours. It still hurts, even now."
"If you're expecting me to feel guilty, forget it."
"I know better than to expect pity from you, or from any of our ilk."
"So why are you telling me this?"
Pangloss's smile was bitter. "When you love someone as much as I loved Morgan, and find that emotion betrayed... You see, my dear, I hate him as much as you do. And for far better reasons. It is in my interest that Morgan's plan be foiled."
"Plan?"
The elder vampire chuckled, shaking his head in admiration. "The fool's ambition is boundless, if nothing else. He is plotting to revolutionize Pretender society, although I'm uncertain as to how he expects to do so. Something about creating an army of silver-immune vampires."
"Don't you know anything else?"
"He's screened himself quite well. It took me five years to trace him to this city."
"Here? You mean he's here? In San Francisco?" Sonja felt her stomach knot. She'd been hunting for so long, traveling the world in search of the vampire who had made her into something beyond human. To be told that she was in the same city with him, after twenty years...
"He's operating under deep cover. Has been for well over a decade. I don't know what name - or face - he's wearing, but I have succeeded in tracking down the name of someone who does. His name is Russell Howard, a human real-estate agent. He knows who - and what - Morgan is. I suggest you start your inquiry with him."
"Why me? Why are you telling me this? If what Morgan is planning on doing will disrupt the nature of things in the Real World, why aren't the other vampire nobles taking an interest in what's going on?"
Pangloss grimaced as if he'd sipped tainted blood. "The ruling class - those known as the Combine - are convinced his efforts are folly, that he's gone mad. It happens sometimes - vampiric senile dementia. But they don't know Morgan as I do. They are too preoccupied with their own blood feuds and atrocity exhibitions. I can understand Morgan's disgust with their narrow-mindedness, but what he's proposing... It's too dangerous. For both the humans and the Real World! What is required is a free agent. You're unorthodox, but no one can deny your effectiveness. And what better weapon to turn against Morgan than one of his own making?"
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Herr Doktor. I still don't see why you haven't intervened if Morgan's scheme is so damned hazardous to your health. Unless you're afraid of him."
The vampire's smile faltered.
"I know you're scared of Morgan, just as I know you're scared of me. You've been frightened of me since you first saw me. Why is that, Herr Pangloss?"
Sonja removed her mirrored glasses. "What is it you see when you look at me?"
There was loathing in the old vampire's wine-red gaze, but he did not avert his eyes. "I don't know. And that's what scares me."