In the Blood (14 page)

The
vargr
rose from its hiding place among the jumbled garbage containers,
growling a warning at the intruder who had dared to interrupt its meal. The
werewolf stood almost six feet tall, although its curved spine and crooked legs made
it seem even taller. The pointed, vulpine snout curled into a menacing snarl,
exposing sharp teeth stained with fresh blood and flecked with flesh and gristle.

Sonja spied the savaged remains of a bag lady-a real one this time-at its taloned feet.

The beast's russet pelt bristled, raising hackles along its back. The
vargr's
thin,
pointed penis slid from its furred pouch in ritual challenge.

Sonja Blue hissed, unsheathing her fangs. The werewolf looked confused.

"C'mon, Rin-Tin-Tin! Whassamatter, furball? You too lap dog to take on some-one
your own size?" She knew she was being foolhardy. She'd only tangled with one or
two
vargr
before. They were as dangerous as the more advanced vampires, although
they lacked psychic powers. Physically, though, they were incredibly powerful and
close to immortal. She wondered what the hell she was trying to prove to herself.

The werewolf stepped forward, tossing aside the fifty-gallon garbage cans as if they
were ninepins. The beast reeked like a wet dog. Sonja palmed the switchblade and
pressed the ruby stud in the dragon's eye. The
vargr
halted at the sight of the silver
knife.

Sonja launched herself at the hesitant werewolf, knocking it to the ground. The

vargr
gave a yelp of surprise. The two opponents wrestled on the filthy bricks,
knocking over even more garbage cans. Startled rats scurried for cover, their meals
interrupted, while the werewolf and the vampire battled.

Sonja, already bleeding from a score of cuts from the beast-man's talons, cried out
as the
vargr
sank its teeth into her shoulder, worrying her like a dog's chew toy. She
stabbed blindly at her attacker and was rewarded by a yowl of pain and the smell of
bile. She pulled herself free and staggered away from the wounded vargr. The bite
on her shoulder had weakened her more than she realized.

Just before she fainted she saw the
vargr
hurrying down the alleyway. He was on the
verge of reverting to his human persona, and the way he was hunched over told her
he was trying to keep his intestines from spilling out.

When she opened her eyes again it was to find a strange man kneeling over her.

She'd passed out propped against the alley wall. Her glasses were still on and the
man could not see she was awake.

He reached into her jacket and removed her wallet. The man seemed pleased by the
amount of money inside. He chuckled to himself. It was obvious he thought she was
dead. He leaned forward again, in search of more loot.

She'd lost a lot of blood. She needed blood to heal. The man looked genuinely
surprised when the dead woman grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer. Then there
was only fear.

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8

Russell Howard was a self-satisfied man. He was only thirty-seven, but already well
on his way to becoming a multimillionaire. Seven years ago he was a struggling real-estate agent, handling third- and fourth-rate rental properties on the wrong side of
Army.

Now he had a Lamborghini with its very own phone and fax machine. His office
took up half of the fifteenth floor of a spanking-new high rise in the Embarcadero.

His clients were some of the wealthiest in the Bay Area, if not the state. His name
and face often graced the
Chronicle's
society pages. Yes, Russell Howard was on his
way to big things.

Thanks to his oh-so-silent partner.

Howard didn't like to think too much about his partner. It tended to make his palms
sweat and his brain itch. Sometimes it even gave him nightmares. But if there was
anything he'd learned from life, it was that money solved everything. Even if his
problems didn't exactly disappear, at least they left him alone.

Howard sat in his swivel chair and watched the shadows lengthen as the sun set.

He'd just finished a late afternoon conference with a client and was contemplating
calling his wife and telling her he'd be home late. He did not know the elevator was
on its way to the fifteenth floor, carrying two visitors. And even if he had been
aware of it, he would not have cared.

He occasionally read Dr. Seuss books to his three-year-old, Kristin, before she went
to bed. Right now her favorite was
Yertle the Turtle.
The symbolism was lost on him.

The secretary looked up from her word processor to see two strangers, a man and a
woman, enter the reception area. She frowned and glanced down at the calendar on
her desk. It showed no more appointments scheduled for that day.

"May I help you?"

The man spoke first. "We're here to see Mr. Howard."

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, her voice dripping icicles as she eyed his
outlandish haircut.

"No. But he'll see us anyway." This from the woman in the leather jacket and
mirrored glasses.

"I'm afraid that's not possible. Mr. Howard is a very busy man and-" "It's time to
go home."

The secretary stared dumbly at the woman in sunglasses for a heartbeat, then got up
and switched off the word processor, snugged a plastic cover over the electric
typewriter, retrieved her purse from its place in the filing cabinet, and marched out
the door.

The sound of the outer door slamming shut brought Russell Howard from his office.

He stared in surprise at the two strangers for a second before looking for his
secretary.

"Where's Patricia?"

"She had to go home. Something came up all of a sudden. Besides, it's late. You
work her too hard."

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Howard was uncertain whether to be frightened or offended by the strange man and
woman. They looked like they belonged on MTV or the back of an album cover
instead of his reception area. The man seemed to be in his late thirties, dressed in
faded jeans, a dark bulky sweater and a black raincoat. His hair, while relatively
short, was wiry and stood straight up from his head like he'd received a jolt of
electricity. A profusion of gray frosted his temples and his chin was bisected by a
narrow width of beard that made him look like a punk pharaoh.

The woman was much younger, wearing reflective sunglasses, tight-fitting jeans,
steel-tipped boots and a battered leather jacket over a Dead Kennedys T-shirt. Her
dark, unruly hair made her look like an exotic bird. "Who are you people? What do
you want?"

The woman stepped forward. There was something familiar in the way she moved,
but he couldn't place it. "My name is Sonja Blue, Mr. Howard. My... associate is
Mr. Palmer. As to what we want-all we want is information, Mr. Howard.

Information I have reason to believe you can provide." She motioned to the filing
cabinets lining the wall. "Check 'em out." Palmer nodded and began rifling
Howard's files.

Howard's face had gone the color of a ripe tomato. "You can't do that! I'm calling
the police!"

Sonja Blue clucked her tongue reproachfully. "Now, that's not a very nice thing to
do, is it?" She took another step closer to the realtor. He could see his own outraged
features, twisted and twinned, reflected in her glasses. Menace oozed from her like
an expensive French perfume. "Why don't you tell me where Morgan is, Mr.

Howard?"

Howard's heart iced over. Now he knew why she'd seemed so familiar. It was the
way she handled herself, the way she talked, her mannerisms those of a creature
impervious to threats and accustomed to power. Just like his partner.

He made a strange gargling noise that sounded like a deaf-mute's attempt at speech.

He tried to slam the door on her, but she moved too fast for him. He stumbled
backward into his spacious office with its pastel color schemes and trendy halogen
light fixtures, his eyes riveted on the woman as she advanced on him. He could not
look away from her. He remembered stories he'd heard as a child of snakes
hypnotizing birds into their open jaws. When she grabbed him, it was with the
speed and precision of a cobra striking.

She jerked him forward by his yellow silk power tie and thrust her pale, ice-maiden's face into his own. He saw himself in her glasses again; this time his skin
oozed beads of sweat like tiny pearls of mercury. She smiled, revealing canines as
white as new bone and sharper than hypodermics. Howard moaned.

"I see Pangloss wasn't lying about your connection with Morgan." Sonja Blue
yanked harder on Howard's tie. He was suddenly aware that his feet had nearly
cleared the floor and that he could no longer breathe.

Sonja dragged the strangling realtor around the desk and dumped him
unceremoniously in his chair. Howard gasped and coughed and tried to free his
neck of the power tie cum garrote. The Windsor knot he'd done that morning was
now the size of a small pea and could not be budged. The realization that he would

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have to destroy the eighty-dollar tie in order to get it off was enough to make him
forget his predicament.

Sonja Blue walked back around the desk-an impressive walnut job the size of a pool
table-and came to rest in one of the chairs he reserved for clients. This apparent
resumption of the power structure Howard was familiar with triggered something
instinctual in him: He automatically sat upright, attempted to straighten his ruined
tie, and put on his best angry tycoon face.

"Now see here, whoever you are! I won't stand for this! How dare you come into my
office and threaten me in such a manner!" He reached for the multiline telephone
on his right. "I'm calling security right this minute!"

"Touch that phone, and I will tear your fingers, one by one, from your hands. Is
that understood?"

Howard blanched and let the receiver drop back into its cradle. "What do you
want?"

"I've already told you. I want Morgan's address and the name he's using." When
Howard remained silent, she sighed and crossed her legs. "Mr. Howard, you know
what I am. You know what I am capable of. I could pop your memory open like a
raw cauliflower and get my information
that
way. But such measures are drastic and
not necessarily effective. It would also lower your IQ by more than a hundred
points, and I have serious doubts as to you escaping unimpaired."

"I can't tell you anything."

"You mean you won't."

Howard pulled a monogrammed linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and
mopped his forehead, his hands shaking. "He'll kill me."

"So will I, Mr. Howard, if you don't tell me what I want to know."

"Look, I haven't done anything-"

"You traffic with monsters, Mr. Howard. Four hundred years ago you would have
ended up in the hands of the Inquisition, your feet stuffed into iron boots full of
molten lead. I am far more reasonable than Torquemada, if not as patient. Tell me
what your connection is to Morgan."

"It's nothing important."

Sonja sighed again. "Mr. Howard, Lord Morgan would not bother to become
involved with a dreary little human such as yourself unless you serve some purpose
useful to him."

Howard shifted his weight on his buttocks, unhappy with his situation. "Look, he
gives me money, okay? He's what's called a silent partner. He gives me money, I buy
and manage properties for him. Nothing illegal about that."

"Indeed."

"I also find places for him to stay. He moves around a lot, okay? Never stays
anywhere more than six months. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"No. Nothing at all." It was obvious from her voice that she was thinking. Howard
didn't want to know about what.

"Sonja?"

Palmer stood in the doorway, holding aloft a fat manila file folder. When Howard
saw it he felt his guts knot into a sheepshank. Sonja took the file and began flipping

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through the documents inside, occasionally lifting her head to study Howard with
her impassive, mirrored gaze. It did not take more than the most cursory of glances
to realize that the properties in question were in the worst parts of Oakland.

Howard patted his forehead with his damp handkerchief.

"Well." Sonja closed the folder and handed it back to Palmer, returning her full
attention to Howard. "Things are starting to make sense. Those are the properties
you purchased and manage for your partner?"