Sonja Blue - Paint It Black Part 16

Vampires were needful things. But with their renfields they could experience, in a flawed fas.h.i.+on, what it was like to be needed.

'Please, master, I beg you to rethink what you're about to do,' whispered the renfield who had greeted Sonja and Jen when they first exited the elevator, his voice made hoa.r.s.e by unshed tears.

'There's no putting it off,' Pangloss replied, levering himself out of his wheelchair. 'I've gone too far to turn back now.' He took a feeble step forward and nearly fell. Sonja reached out and grabbed his elbow, steadying him as best she could.

'But, master, what of us? What will become of us once you're gone?'

'You'll be free to make your own ways in the world, just as you have been all along,' Pangloss sighed 'Come, Sonja, it's time to go.'

There were two bas.e.m.e.nts to the apartment building. The first one was clean and well lit and had recycling bins and a set of coin-operated washer-dryers for, the tenants. The second bas.e.m.e.nt was dark and damp and smelled of age and rat p.i.s.s and could only be reached by a special elevator in the penthouse.

Sonja held Pangloss's elbow, helping him along as they wound their way through stacks of moldering newspapers and steamer trunks dating from the last century. He pointed at a narrow, low-set iron door. There were strange runes chiseled into the lintel, written in the brain-twisting script of the Pretender tongue. Pangloss produced a key from the pocket of his robe and handed it to her.

Sonja fitted the key into the door and gave it a turn. The door swung open with a squeal, displacing enough cobwebs to rig a schooner. There was a smell of old earth and stale water and in the distance Sonja heard the rumble of subway cars. Pangloss's long, unkept nails bit into the flesh of her upper arm, but he said nothing.

The tunnel that connected Pangloss's bas.e.m.e.nt to the city's underground labyrinth of service tunnels and subway tracks was indeed old. Sh.o.r.ed with rotting timbers and lined with mammoth slabs of natural stone, it reminded Sonja of how the men who'd laid the foundations for the Brooklyn Bridge had labored hundreds of feet underwater, in little more than crude airlocks.

The entire tunnel suddenly shuddered and dirt and loose mortar drifted down from the decaying ceiling onto their heads. By her reckoning, they were directly under the Number Six line. Pangloss pointed at a set of stone steps, worn from the tread of countless feet, that led upward. The staircase was so tight and steep Sonja had to place Pangloss ahead of her and walk immediately behind him, her hands bracing his back and hips in case he lost his balance and fell. It was a slow, torturous climb, but finally they came to another old-fas.h.i.+oned iron door. Pangloss opened it, and they stepped out into what turned out to be the main lobby of Grand Central Station.

If anyone noticed them leaving what looked to be a locked janitor's closet, they didn't show it. Pangloss shuffled across the main concourse, leaning on Sonja for support. In the time since they had left his lair, he'd aged even more. His back was now completely bowed, his head dropped between his shoulders like a turtle's. Sonja was sure someone would notice them; no doubt one of the depot's employees would insist on providing a wheelchair for such an infirm old man.

Then she realized that although people were looking right at them, no one saw them; they were walking between the cracks in human perception. Without her being aware of it, Pangloss had cast a glamour about them. Although the old vampire's body might be decaying, it seemed his psychic abilities were as strong - if not stronger - as ever.

As they made their way onto one of the lower platforms, Pangloss suddenly teetered and collapsed onto one knee. No one seemed to notice. Sonja helped Pangloss back onto his feet, but she could tell his kneecap had dissolved.

'I'm afraid ... you'll have to carry me ... from here on,' he rasped. 'I wanted to go to my death on my own two feet, but I fear I've left it too late.'

Sonja scooped him up into her arms. He weighed about as much as a bag of dead leaves. She was afraid to tighten her grip on him, for fear he would crumble in her hands like chalk.

Pangloss pointed to one of the tunnels and Sonja stepped off the platform onto the tracks below. The interior of the tunnel was lit by the occasional industrial-strength light-bulb set into the brakeman alcoves that lined the walls. The vaulted brick roof was black from decades of soot, and graffiti smeared the walls. There was a rumbling from behind her and Sonja quickly side-stepped into one of the alcoves, watching the Amtrack train's lighted windows flash past. An old woman with cat's-eye gla.s.ses gaped at them for a quarter of a heartbeat, then was gone.

After a few more yards, they came to what looked like a service tunnel. Pangloss motioned for Sonja to enter it. There were spent rubbers and broken syringes littering the ground, along with empty Thunderbird bottles. Pangloss reached out and pressed a brick in the wall. There was the sound of stone grating on stone and the side of the wall opened.

'Hurry,' Pangloss whispered. These tunnels are rife with homeless humans and other such detritus. They must not see the entrance - and live to tell of it.'

Sonja slipped through the opening and the door pivoted back into place. They were standing at the head of yet another set of ancient stone stairs corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g into the earth. There was no light in the antechamber, nor was there any evidence of there ever having been any. Still, Sonja's dark-adapted eyes could see perfectly well in the inky blackness as they descended the stairs.

Pangloss plucked at his robe with long, yellowed talons, his voice as thin and fragile as a cobweb. 'Did . . . did I ever tell you how much I loved him.'

'Loved who?'

'Morgan.'

Sonja tensed at the mention of her Maker's name, the muscles going rigid in her arms. 'I believe you mentioned it, the last time we met.'

'I loved him so very, very much - more than any of the others. I'd had scores of lovers before him, and hundreds since, but he was the only one I loved as an equal. The only one I loved enough to make like myself. So we could be together forever. But he betrayed me, in the end. He left me to go off on his own. He said I was not an ambitious enough partner for his tastes. He planned great things for himself. He dreamed of raising a vampire army, loyal only to him, so that he might be the first of our kind to step from the shadows and rule the world of man.' Pangloss giggled, his body s.h.i.+vering with the effort. 'Well, we know where his "great plans" got him, don't we, my dear? That's what he gets for trying to use science to meet his ends! Science is a human thing. Whenever the Pretending kind try to use it, it turns in our hands, like an angry serpent. We are things outside nature, beyond reason - perhaps it senses we are not its true master.'

'Science isn't a force unto itself, like the weather or magic,' Sonja explained. 'It's just... well, it's just science.'

'That is what you think. But you're wrong. There are a lot of things that are wrong.' Pangloss's voice had taken on the vague, querulous tone of the senile. 'Did I tell you I loved him? Loved him better than any of the rest?'

'Yes. Yes, you did.'

'I forgive him. I forgive him for leaving me. For betraying me. I hated him for a long, long time - longer than I loved him, actually. I hated him for at least five centuries. I've never hated anything or anyone that long. But I forgive him, now. It's easier to forgive than hate It doesn't use up quite as much energy.

You should learn from that, child.'

'I'm not the forgiving kind.'

'Why are you carrying me, then?' Pangloss's eyes were no longer cloudy but clear and sharp, waiting for her reply. Just as quickly his gaze grew vague and his voice resumed its old man's timbre. 'Whatever happened to that nice Palmer fellow? Are you two still together?'

'No. No, we split up.'

'That's a shame. You looked so nice together.'

Finally, after what seemed like a small eternity, they reached the bottom of the stairs. Spanning outward, as far as the eye could see in every direction, was a mammoth underground labyrinth, the walls of the maze carved from the living rock itself. At the mouth of the necropolis was a huge iron gate, guarded by a pair of ogres, their flesh the translucent white of cave-born lizards. As Sonja moved forward, the bigger of the two - he stood nearly twelve feet tall - swiveled his wide, flat head in her direction.

The eyes were blind lumps of jelly the color of oatmeal, but his hearing and sense of smell were quite keen.

'Who go there?' he rumbled.

'I am Pangloss of the enkidu. I have come here to die.'

The ogre sniffed the air and frowned. 'You not alone. Who woman?'

'She is Sonja Blue, also of the enkidu. She is my companion.'

The ogre held a brief conference with his fellow guard - a mere stripling at seven feet - then unlocked the gate, swinging it open as easily as a screen door. 'Very well. Good journey, enkidu.'

'Thank you, friend ogre,' Pangloss replied.

The interior of the necropolis reminded Sonja of the catacombs of Rome, with its narrow stone corridors and burial niches. However, some of the niches in the labyrinth were large enough to accommodate giants, while others were only big enough for a child. All of the niches closest to the entrance were occupied. As they trudged through the maze, she stared at the collection of dead ogres, nagas, kitsune, larvae and other Pretender species.

Pangloss motioned for her to stop as they walked by the corpse of what had once been a woman, dressed in the rotting remains of Edwardian finery. Her face was that of an unwrapped mummy, the hair long since dissolved into dust.

Pangloss stared at the dead vampiress for a long moment before speaking. His voice was dry and rasped in his throat.

'I always wondered what had become of her. It never occurred to me that she was dead.'

'Did you know her?'

'In her time.'

After wandering the labyrinth for what felt like a day and a night, they finally found an empty niche. Sonja carefully eased Pangloss into his final resting place, not terribly sure what to do next. The elder vampire stretched out on the narrow stone ledge. He sighed and smiled as if he was resting on the softest mattress in the world.

'This will do just fine,' he said.

'Are you sure you're comfortable?'

'I am. But you don't seem to be.'

'I guess I'm just not used to the idea of natural death.

Not only for vampires, but for anyone. It's not something I've experienced that much of.'

'Does it frighten you?'

'Not really, I just feel . . . awkward, I guess. What does dying feel like to you? Does it hurt?'

'Of course there is pain. But I have known greater pain than this. No, what I feel isn't physical, it comes from somewhere besides the body. I feel both empty and ready to explode. It's as if, after century upon century of taking the life-force of others, without ever giving in return, I am full to the brim. That's the funny thing about all this - even as my body wastes away from the Ennui, my psychic energies have yet to weaken. I simply have no interest in using them. It's as if I am feeding on myself, just as I once fed on others.'

Pangloss reached out and took Sonja's hand in his own. His skin felt dry and flaky, like that shed by a snake. There was fear in his eyes, and sadness. 'I'm afraid of what it will be like, Sonja. I'm afraid of what's beyond. I know what it's like to be dead But what is there beyond unlife? What happens when the dead die? I know that humans seem to have all kinds of options as to what happens to them in the After - but what about us? Do we go to heaven? Or do we go to h.e.l.l? Or do we simply not go anywhere at all?'

'I don't know, Pangloss. I honestly don't.'

Pangloss tightened his grip on her hand and motioned for Sonja to draw closer. 'You have done me a great service, Sonja. Greater than I deserve. As payment for your kindness, I will tell you something of great value.' Pangloss smiled at Sonja, his eyes rolled up so far in his head all she could see were bloodless veins. 'He loves you, did you know that? He loves you like the moth loves the flame, like the mongoose adores the cobra. He--' Pangloss's voice trembled, then broke. 'I'm so sorry, so sorry. It's all been for nothing, hasn't it? All the pain, all the death, all the intrigue -it means nothing.'

To Sonja's amazement, actual tears, leaked from the corners of Pangloss's eyes. The old vampire reached up and touched the wetness running down his face, looking confused. 'What...

what's this?'

'They're tears,' Sonja whispered. 'You're crying, Pangloss.

You're actually crying.'

'At last,' Pangloss rasped. Then he died.

Within seconds, Pangloss's body seemed to cave in upon itself, as if someone had deflated a balloon. A burst of light the color of raw electricity shot out of the niche, zipping past Sonja's right ear, making the hair on her scalp tighten. She was so startled she stumbled backward and landed on her a.s.s. A ball of St Elmo's fire bounced back and forth amongst the walls of the labyrinth like a demented pinball, then, with a crackle of static, it shot straight up and disappeared.

It took her a minute to realize she was still holding Pangloss's hand - it had snapped off at the wrist. Before she could react, it crumbled into chalk.

She resurfaced from the catacombs in Central Park. Dawn was creeping over the skysc.r.a.pers and she felt like she'd been pulled through a knothole feet first. She still wasn't sure what it all meant. As she strode through the park, she espied a homeless person rummaging through one of the garbage cans in search of half-eaten pretzels and aluminium cans. It looked like every other homeless person on the streets of the city, dressed in castoffs scavenged from a dozen dumpsters, its shoes stuffed full of newspapers, a dirty stocking cap pulled over hair that hadn't been washed in weeks, if not months. However, as Sonja drew closer, it looked up from what it was doing and fixed her with pupil-less eyes the color of gold. Seraphim.

Sonja paused and returned its stare. There was something familiar about this particular specimen, although she couldn't put her finger on it. It couldn't be its appearance, since they all looked more or less alike. No, the sense of recognition was on a far more intangible level. Then she noticed how the seraphim's head seemed to bob like a balloon on a string.

Pangloss..

Of course.

So that's where they came from! She should have figured it out for herself when Morgan's tampering with the vampire life cycle produced a baby seraphim instead of an infant bloodsucker! After centuries of feeding on the misery of others, those vampires who could no longer bring themselves to feed on the living became seraphim. It kind of balanced out, once she thought about it.

After all, what is an angel but a demon yet to fall?

The Great Victoria Desert, Australia: It was a toss-up as to which was hotter, the sun under which he walked or the ground on which he walked. His skin hung in peeling tatters from his bare shoulders, pinker than boiled shrimp. His back felt as if he'd lain down on a white-hot barby grill, producing blisters the size of walnuts. How long had he been on walkabout? Three days? Four? How long could a man walk naked in the Northern Territory of Australia before dying of exposure and thirst? Two days? Three?

A month ago his name ,was Charlie Gower. He worked as a commercial artist in Canberra, designing logos for tinned meat and flavored chips. Then the advertising firm he worked for landed a state-sponsored job. Charlie wasn't too sure what the campaign was about - some kind of anniversary of something -but he was supposed to draw on ancient aboriginal designs for the campaign. So he found himself checking out books on tjurunga, the sacred object art of the aborigines. Charlie had never paid too much attention to native art before - being Australian, he spent most of his time in art school studying the Old Masters of Europe and the painters of English landscapes out of national insecurity. But the minute he laid eyes on the sinuous primitivism of the ancient Koori, as the aborigines called themselves before there were Australians to tell them otherwise, something changed inside Charlie Gower.

Fascinated by the artwork of these primitive nomadic tribes, Charlie began to look into the history of the peoples themselves -something rarely, if ever, mentioned in his schooling. And, to his surprise, he discovered he had aborigine blood in him.

His great-great-grandfather, Jebediah Gower of London, had been arrested for stealing a coat and sent to Australia to serve his queen and country as convict labor. He'd been fifteen years old at the time of his arrest. He worked his way to freedom by the age of twenty-one and took an aborigine girl to wife. All Charlie could find out about her was that she had been of the Wurunjerri and Jebediah had renamed her Hannah. When he asked Grandfather Gower about Jebediah and Hannah, the old man had been scandalized by the suggestion that his ancestors had been anything but good, upstanding white folk.

'Where'd you get this rubbish about your great-great being' a convict and that he married an abo?' Grandfather Gower demanded, all but spitting his false teeth out in disgust.

'Jebediah Gower came over as a guard! And Hannah was white as you an' me!'

'I found it in the public record, Grandfather. They've got it all on microfiche now.'

'Rubbis.h.!.+ Absolute rubbis.h.!.+'

Charlie really didn't know what he expected to hear from his grandpa. Grandfather Gower's generation had been raised to be ashamed of its convict and aborigine heritage, and his parents' generation wasn't much better. His mother, a devout Christian, was exceptionally concerned over his interest in pagan art, fearing for his immortal soul. As far as Charlie was concerned, they were all overreacting. He had simply discovered a new hobby, one that allowed him a freedom of expression denied him by the commercial strictures of his job.

Charlie read of how the Koori called the time before the birth of man the Dreamtime. At the dawn of time, beings of great power shaped the land and filled it with all the plants and animals that would ever be. After the beings of power died, they transformed their physical bodies into the stars and the rainbows and the mountains and their spirits withdrew from the earth into the spiritual realm, where they dreamed the world. However, the Dreaming things retained their power over the physical realm, which they would continue to release as long as humans followed the Great and Secret Plan. But it was only through dreams that the living could commune with the spiritual realm of the making G.o.ds and gain strength from them. All of this was well and good, if you were an anthropology major, but Charlie didn't really think that much about it. Until that night, when he found himself in the Dreaming.

In his dream he was walking naked through a strange and hostile land, both beautiful and frightening in its inhospitality to man. As he walked under the beating sun he saw the Great Snakes Ungunel, Wanambi, and Aranda rise from their watery hiding places and stretch themselves until they filled the sky with their writhing, endless bodies. Mudungkala, the old blind woman who was mother to all mankind, crawled from the middle of the earth, clutching the three babies that were the first human beings to her withered b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and scolded him for being so slow.

'You best hurry up, Djabo, if you would be father to the new race.'

'My name isn't Djabo, it's Charlie. Charlie Gower.'

'Maybe that is the name you wear in the land of the white men,' Mudungkala told him. 'But in the Dreaming you are Djabo. And it's best not to keep your bride waiting, no matter what your name.' The old woman pointed in the direction of the horizon. Charlie saw a beautiful woman in place of the sun, s.h.i.+ning like she held a thousand stars in her belly. The Dream Woman opened her eyes and pinned Charlie with their golden stare. Then she spoke his name: Djabo.

Her voice echoed in his head for several days as he tried to focus his attention on an advert for a beer company.

He was supposed to be drawing a kangaroo with a six pack of beer in its pouch in place of a joey. After he'd finished drawing the kangaroo, the clients told him they wanted the kangaroo to be wearing a bush hat because that would somehow 'masculinize' the kangaroo and then no one could accuse them of encouraging pregnant mothers to drink beer. As the client's PR representative droned on about kangaroos with hats being more masculine than kangaroos without hats, Charlie Gower heard somebody call his name. Not his white name. His Dreaming name.

Djabo.

Charlie's eyes widened as they darted around the conference room, but he couldn't see anyone.

Djabo. It's time to go walkabout, the Dreamtime voice said.

And the voice was right. It was time to go walkabout Without saying a word, Charlie stood up from his chair and began taking off his tie. Everyone in the room fell silent and stared at him as if he'd just sawed off his right leg.

'Gower! What's the meaning of this?' his boss bl.u.s.tered.

Charlie did not respond, instead he marched out of the conference room and headed for the elevator. He left his jacket lying on the street outside the office building he had worked in since graduating from university.

That was what? Three? Four days ago?

He'd walked along the highways until they turned into roads. Then he walked along the roads until they became trails. Then he walked along the trails until they became paths. And now he was climbing Ayers Rock, one of the biggest b.l.o.o.d.y rocks on the face of the earth.

Not that he'd done it all on his own. He'd had some help along the way, such as the elderly full-blooded Bindubi who had let him ride in the back of his beat-up old Land Rover for a hundred miles, and the shape-s.h.i.+fting mura-mura who, upon seeing how close to starvation and death from dehydration he was, came dancing out of the s.h.i.+mmering heat with a length of cooked 'roo tail and an emu egg full of water. Sometimes the mura-mura looked like aborigines, sometimes they looked like kangaroo-headed humans, other times they looked like they had dingo heads. In any case, they'd proven fairly friendly.

He clawed his way up Ayers Rock like an insect, sc.r.a.ping the tips of his fingers away on its rough, red surface. All conscious thought, all ident.i.ty besides that of Djabo, continued to flake away with his burnt and peeling hide. And finally, after struggling for the better part of a day and a night, he finally made the summit and lay on his back, his face turned toward the sun, his arms and legs splayed to embrace the universe.

As he stared up at the punis.h.i.+ng sky with the last of his scorched vision, he saw a piece of the sun break off and fall from the heavens. As the piece of sun got closer, he could make out arms and legs and a head. He smiled then, for he recognized the Dream Woman and knew he was not dreaming.

The Dream Woman scooped him up in her golden arms and bore him into the sky, where she wrapped his scorched flesh in soft clouds and coaxed the honey of life from his loins with only the slightest movement of her own.