In the Blood (7 page)

frightened boy clutched in his hands. The youth's hair was the color of a Maxfield

Parrish sky, his face that of an errant choirboy. There were brief, blurred glimpses of

rape, robbery, looting, each involving the same baby-faced miscreant
- An
orgasm

shuddered through Palmer's nervous system as a hot gush of thick, salty blood filled

his mouth.

Sonja Blue jerked her hand away from his, growling like a mountain lion. She
turned and ran, disappearing into the darkness before Palmer had a chance to
reorient himself. He felt dizzy, as if he'd just stepped off the Tilt-A-Whirl at the
State Fair. He could still taste the boy's blood. The thought made him moan, and
bile burned the back of his throat. He didn't want to think about it. Not now, not
ever. He especially didn't want to think about how he'd recognized the blue-haired
boy's face as belonging to Jimmy Eichorn.

All he wanted to do was get back to the apartment, phone Pangloss and tell him he'd
fulfilled his part of the bargain. He'd collect his bonus and go somewhere nice and
sunny. Mexico sounded good. He'd retire to Mexico and sell stuffed frogs playing
mariachi instruments to the
turistas.
That sounded
real good.

He started back toward Pangloss's house. It was almost midnight, and Bourbon
Street was jammed with partygoers determined to wring the few remaining minutes
of pleasure out of Carnival. The noise and excitement was almost enough to make
him forget what had just happened.

At first he thought the tugging on his sleeve was the wind. Then it spoke his name.

Palmer turned and stared into the pale, smiling face of a man in his late twenties,
dressed in an expensive, loose-fitting suit. The stranger lifted a smoldering French
cigarette to his thin lips, his eyes strangely sunken in the fluorescent and neon glare
from a nearby live sex show sign.

There was something familiar about his arrogant, smirking features-then Palmer
recognized him.

He took an involuntary step backward, his scalp tightening as his heart began to
race. The street noise faded into an indistinct rumble, as if he were underwater. He
prayed he wasn't having a stroke, though that would at least explain the things
happening to him.

"You're
dead]"
It sounded like an accusation.

Geoffrey Chastain, known to friends and enemies as Chaz, shrugged. "Is that a

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crime? I've been tryin' to get yer bleedin' attention all bloody night! Coo! Yer a
dense bugger!"

Palmer noticed that parts of Chaz were semitransparent. The dead man drew
another lung full of smoke from his phantom cigarette, causing his midsection to
swirl. Palmer wondered if he'd still be toking on his beloved Shermans a year after
his own death.

"Look, there's not much time left. Mardi Gras night's one of th' few times th'

friggin' spirits of th' dead can corporalize 'n mingle with th' livin'. As it 'tis, it's
damn near Ash Wednesday. I know we dead men ain't supposed to be tellin' tales,
but I was ne'er one for th' rules. So take some advice from one who knows, eh? Get
th' hell outta town while yer able. Fuck gettin' yer money from Pangloss. Just get on
th' next bleedin' bus outta town and don't look back! Fergit y' ever laid eyes on
her!" "Who-?"

"Who th' bloody fuck y'think I mean? Sonja soddin' Blue! The Bloofer Lady
herself! She's death, boyo! Death on two legs! Pure 'n simple. Not that she can help
it, mind you. It's just her way. But knowin' that won't help you none when the time
comes. An' it will. Look, mate-I was a real pisser when I was like you. Alive, that is.

Bein' dead's changed how I see things. It innit pretty, lookin' back an' seein' meself
for th' bastard I was. But it ain't bad, really. Actually, I prefer it to how things was
when I was flesh 'n' blood. So mebbe how she did me weren't so bad. Mebbe."

Palmer's stomach knotted tighter. "Are you saying she-" "Snuffed me? Aye, that
she did. Ain't you th' bright student? She killed me, awright. Just like she did th'

lads with th' blue hair. She was feelin' her oats that night. Not that I should blame
her for it-but I still do. I guess I haven't been knackered long enough t' forgive her
fer that. But I don't hate th' lass, if that's what yer gettin' at. Like I said, bein' dead
changed how I look at things. I used t' think I hated her, back when I was alive.

Now I see that I loved her, that was me problem. Me!
Lovin'
someone! It scared me
so bad I got to hatin' her fer it. That's why I did her th' way I did. That's why she
did me th' way she did. Love. Funny how death makes things so much clearer,
innit?"

"Then why are you warning me, if you're so ambivalent?" Palmer's fear had abated
in the face of this mundane, chain-smoking specter. He was starting to feel more
aggravated than frightened.

"Shall we say you 'n me, we're kindred spirits?" Chaz's smirk widened. "That
bullet did more'n punch a hole in yer skin, ducks. It woke up somethin'. Jump-started it, as it were. Yer what they call a 'sensitive.' How else y'fancy ol' Pangloss
found you, eh? You might have been unconscious th' whole time you was in
hospital, but part of you was broadcastin' like a bloody shortwave radio! They like
usin' sensitives like you-an' me. We make handy servants, don't you know? So far
you've only had a taste of what it's like-'avin' th' world turn itself inside out like a
bloomin' magician's sack, an' you bein' th' only one noticin'. But get used t' it, mate.

Yer'll ne'er get t' like it, but yer'll get used t'it, if it don't drive you mad first. Like it
did me mum. An' yer Uncle Willy." "Wait a second! What do you mean? "

"Sorry, luv. Seems me time's run out." The bell in the basilica's tower rang,
marking the transition from excess to penance. Chaz grinned as he stepped into the

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street.

"What do you mean? Who are
they?"
Second stroke. Third stroke.

The ghost laughed and shook his insubstantial head. "Yer not goin' t' leave it be,
are you? Yer in love with her already! You don't even know it, yet, but I can see it
in th' folds of yer brain, mate!" Fourth stroke. Fifth stroke. "Why are you telling me
these things?
Why?"

"Because y'put flowers on me grave, that's why! Th' dead are a sentimental lot."

Sixth stroke. Seventh stroke.

Halfway up the block uniformed policemen appeared astride horses, riding four
abreast, bullhorns held in their hands. Behind them Palmer glimpsed the huge
street-sweeping machines, brushes spinning in anticipation of flushing the gutters
clean of accumulated filth, human and otherwise. Eighth stroke. Ninth stroke.

Chaz shimmered with every toll of the bell, like a reflection in a bestirred pool.

Palmer tried to push past the throng of revelers, desperate to win one last answer
from the smiling ghost.

"Mardi Gras is over! Everyone go home!"
bellowed the police as they moved
forward, forcing the people milling in the street either onto the sidewalks or into the
bars.
"Mardi Gras is over! Everyone go home!"

The sanitation trucks blasted their horns to punctuate the mounted officers'

commandment.

Tenth stroke. Eleventh stroke.

A huge, heavy hand closed on Palmer's shoulder, pinning him so he could not move.

He looked up and stared into the brutish features of the man he'd seen skulking in
Pangloss's shrubbery. "Renfield say come now."
"Mardi Gras is over!"

Twelfth stroke. Midnight arrived, ushering in Lent.

Chaz wavered like a hologram projected onto smoke. Palmer watched as one of New
Orleans' finest rode through the dead man. He expected the horse, at least, to react
to the ghost, but all it did was flare its nostrils, toss its mane and leave a pile of dung
in its wake.

"Renfield say you come
now!"

The gorilla tightened his grip on Palmer, causing him to cry out in pain.

This made the gorilla smile, something Palmer definitely wished he hadn't seen.

Palmer had a funny feeling he was soon going to find out exactly who "they" were.

4

Sonja Blue watched as the police and sanitation workers brought Carnival to an
end. She knew that the hard-core partying would continue well until dawn, but
from now on it would have to be indoors, not on the streets. The harlequin's mask
had been exchanged for the sackcloth of the penitent. She lifted her gaze from the
streets, watching the spirits of the dead spiral upward like bats leaving a cave.

Neither variety of tourist would be staying to take communion.

She frowned and pulled the envelope from her pocket, turning it over and over as if
by handling it she could divine its contents. Pangloss. Had it been a decade since
they last met? Like most Pretenders, her sense of time was distorted. It was
becoming more and more difficult for her to distinguish months from years.

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She ran her fingers over the wax seal, her mood darkening as she recalled Pangloss's
treachery below the streets of Rome.

The seal cracked easily, falling in three separate pieces at her feet. The letter was on
expensive stationery that felt like silk and smelled of cologne. The penmanship was
exquisitely baroque. No doubt the good doctor favored an old-fashioned quill pen.

My Dear,

Please forgive the method in which this letter was delivered. 1 have attempted to

contact you on numerous occasions, through various menials, but you are
a
difficult

woman to communicate with. I do not hold such rash disposal of my minions against

you. In many ways, I find your gift for carnage reassuring. It has been far too long

since we last spoke, and I fear that the conditions of our previous meeting may have

influenced you to
view me in
an unfavorable light. I have followed your antics with

great interest since we last met. I must admit I found your handling of the Catherine

Wheele situation gauche but effective. You have a natural talent for atrocity, my dear.

It needs refining, but I believe you have it in you to produce a tableau on the level of

Baron Luxor's Jonestown, Lord Mauride's Stockton Elementary School Massacre, or

even Marchessa Nuit's
classic McDonald's McMassacre! But I am not writing simply

to compliment your style. There is much I must tell you, my dear, and it concerns one

who I know you are interested in. I speak of your maker and my former student, Lord

Mauride, known also as Morgan.

You can contact me through the human, Palmer.

Sonja looked at her left hand. The hand the private investigator had touched. She
hadn't recognized the human as a sensitive at first-it was obvious he was unaware of
his own talent-so she'd been unshielded. She'd received a barrage of sensory images,
the most vivid being that of a scarlet-clad nymph with a smoking gun, before
breaking contact. The exchange had been unexpected and unwelcome, but she had
gleaned enough information from the jumble to discern that William Palmer was
exactly what he thought he was: a free agent.

She knew where Palmer was staying-she made it a point to be familiar with the
city's nests-and wondered if it was time for her to get in touch with the "family."

Renfield sat in an antique chair, his pallid bureaucrat's features breaking into
something like a smile at the sight of Palmer in the company of the gorilla.

"Excellent. I assume you fulfilled your part of the bargain, Mr. Palmer. You did
succeed in delivering the letter?"

"Yeah, I delivered your fucking letter! What the hell are you trying to pull,
Renfield?" Palmer tried to jerk free of the gorilla and heard the seams in his jacket
tear.

"Pull?" Renfield smiled again. Palmer wished he'd stop. "Mr. Palmer, if you
continue struggling, I'll have Keif pull your right arm off and beat you with it."

Palmer didn't doubt Keif could do it and ceased trying to break free. He glanced
around the room-empty except for the chair and Renfield-and wondered if the
louvered shutters were nailed shut. If they weren't, he might stand a chance of
escape, providing his guard let go of his shoulder and he didn't break every bone in
his body jumping from the third-floor balcony onto the patio below.

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