Sonja Blue - Paint It Black Part 10

Who says you have to be nice to people simply because they're dead?

Rolling Lawn Cemetery unlocked its gates at dawn. By that time, Sonja had been inside the grounds for a couple of hours.

But before crashing in a suitable tomb, she had a couple of visits to make.

She did Chaz first.

She wasn't sorry she'd killed him. She'd felt a little guilty about it at first, but she never really felt sorry. Chaz had been a deep-down, dyed-in-the-wool b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He'd betrayed her, sold her out for a suitcase of money. Not that it did him any good in the end. Instead of running off to South America, like he'd always dreamed of, the idiot hung around town, frittering his fortune away on hard drugs and rough boys. It was like he was waiting for her to find him.

Just like he was waiting for her now, perched atop his gravestone.

'h.e.l.lo, Chaz. You're looking well.'

Truth to tell, he looked like s.h.i.t. Composed of a grayish purple fog, his features'were beginning to soften, the eyes turning into empty smudges, the nose a hint of shadow. If she hadn't known him so well, it would have been difficult for her to identify him. He was still smoking, though. He remembered enough about his former life to cling to its habits, at least.

'Judd's dead. I guess you already know that, though.'

She expected some sign of malevolent glee on his part, but he gestured dismissively with one hand, leaving trails of ghost in its wake. He remained as ambivalent in death as he had been in life.

'Why haven't you moved on? What holds you to this plane? Is it me?'

Something flickered in the smudges that were once his eyes.

As Sonja looked at the tattered shadow, memories rose inside her. Memories of when they had been friends, of times when they had been lovers. She closed her eyes to ease their stinging, but she still couldn't find it in herself to feel sorry.

When she opened her eyes again, Chaz was gone.

Claude was nowhere to be found. For that she was relieved.

His death had been an unpleasant one, and often such traumas keep the dead tethered to the mortal plane for years, even decades, after their deaths. But it seemed Claude Hagerty had managed to move on to whatever it is that awaits humans when they die. The same could not be said of all of Rolling Lawn's internees, whose after-selves flickered amidst the tombstones and vaults like phantom fireflies.

The sun would be rising soon. She went to the tomb she'd chosen as her crash s.p.a.ce. Since the last occupant had been laid to rest two decades before, she knew she could sleep without having to worry about being discovered by a grieving family member. The memorial sconces were empty and cobwebs hung from the ceiling in delicate tatters. It smelled pleasantly of graveyard mold and dead leaves. She curled up in the darkest corner, setting her watch alarm for four o'clock.

As she drifted off into what pa.s.sed for sleep amongst her kind, she marveled at how little she'd thought about either Palmer or Lethe. That probably meant they were okay.

Palmer couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a sober breath. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved or changed his clothes, either. He was certain he'd been sitting at the kitchen table, naked except for a pair of khaki safari shorts, for several days, but he wasn't sure exactly how long.

He staggered over to the calendar hanging next to the stove and squinted at it. He'd gotten it from a Pharmacia in Medina.

The calendar showed a handsomely muscled Aztec warrior, garbed in brilliantly colored feathers and a skimpy loincloth, shooting a bow at the coming twilight while at his sandaled feet lay sprawled a voluptuous Aztec maiden, wrapped in a diaphanous robe and looking more like a Vargas model than a virgin priestess. Palmer was unfamiliar with the myth the picture was supposed to represent. Was the warrior defending the fallen priestess, or was he the one responsible for her death? And what the h.e.l.l was he shooting at, anyway?

Thinking about the picture on the calendar made his head hurt. Palmer wobbled back to the kitchen table and sat down with an explosive sigh. It took him a few seconds to realize he'd forgot to count how many days it'd been since Lethe disappeared into the coc.o.o.n and his life went into the c.r.a.pper.

He wasn't sure how long Sonja had been gone, either. He had been too drunk to cast his mind for her, but something told him he would not have been able to reach her, even if he was sober. Besides, the possibility of accidently locking minds with the Other again, no matter how distant, was enough to keep him from trying.

Palmer's gaze fell on the black mask, sitting atop a pile of unpaid bills and unfiled invoices. The empty eyes stared up at him, the lips parted as if in antic.i.p.ation of a kiss - or a bite. His head continued to hurt, so he rested it on the table.

When he opened his eyes again, it was dark.

Palmer grunted and jerked upright in his chair, knocking the half-empty tequila bottle onto the floor. It shattered, spraying his bare feet and legs with liquid gold. The color of the tequila made him think of Lethe's eyes. And the coc.o.o.n.

The coc.o.o.n. Time to check the coc.o.o.n.

He lurched to his feet and turned to face the patio door.

He always checked the coc.o.o.n at night. During the day it didn't seem necessary, but night was different. Strange things happened at night. Plus, he had to admit the coc.o.o.n was pretty once the sun went down. The weird glow that suffused it grew more intense, making it look like a piece of amber held in front of a flashlight. Sometimes he could see something moving inside the coc.o.o.n, as if someone was swimming around in there.

Palmer opened the door and stepped out onto the patio, expecting to be greeted by the coc.o.o.n's mellow glow. Instead, there was only darkness. The second thing he noticed was that its guardian was nowhere to be seen.

'Fido?'

He stepped forward hesitantly, looking around for some sign of the seraphim's bulky figure. Had it taken Lethe's coc.o.o.n someplace else? Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the dark, he saw something lying on the bricks of the patio.

At first it looked like a big, deflated balloon, the kind used by weather services. It lay there, limp and forlorn, like an octopus cast upon a sh.o.r.e after a storm. As he moved closer, he could make out a faint, yellowish fluorescence. He knelt and poked at the empty chrysalis. It felt like a cross between a freshly shed snakeskin and a wet blanket.

Palmer's head swiveled around drunkenly. 'Lethe? Lethe, where are you, darlin'?' He struggled to get to his feet, trying his best not to black out. The adrenaline in his system was now battling the tequila for mastery, but he was too far gone to sober up fast.

'Lethe?'

The light came from above, pouring down on him as if someone had switched on a tiny sun right over his head.

Palmer cringed and lifted a hand to shield his eyes. His first thought was that someone was hovering over the house in a helicopter, pointing a surveillance light down at him, like they do in Los Angeles. Then he realized that what he had thought was the sound of rotors chopping the air was his own pulse hammering away inside his ears. And then the light spoke Daddy.

The light lowered its wattage, became a steady glow, and Palmer saw the thing at its heart. Its form was that of a young woman, no older than sixteen or seventeen. Her hair was long enough to braid into a rope, floating free like a mantle buffeted by gentle winds. Her skin was dusky, her eyes golden without pupil or iris. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were full, her hips wide, drawing his eye to the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. She was beautiful. She was woman. Unbidden, Palmer felt his p.e.n.i.s stir and grow heavy at the sight of the lovely, naked woman suspended above him like a vision of Venus. Or the Madonna.

'L-Lethe?'

The glowing woman smiled and when she spoke her lips did not move. Her voice was smooth as velvet, as comforting as a cool hand on a fevered brow.

My childhood is over. It is time for me to begin my work.

I owe you much for keeping me safe, for giving me love and treating me as your own, for showing me what it is like to be human. I owe you all this, and that is why I shall make you the First.

'First? First what?'

Father of the coming race.

Before Palmer could ask her what that meant, Lethe swooped down, catching him up in her arms. He was too drunk and surprised to protest, until he looked down and saw the tops of trees skimming by below his feet.

'Lethe! What the h.e.l.l do you think you're--?'

He didn't finish the sentence because Lethe placed her mouth over his, her tongue darting inside his mouth. For a moment Palmer felt himself begin to respond, then he retched and tried to push her away.

'Lethe! Stop that! I'm your father!'

My father was a vampire named Fell.

'You know very well what I mean! Stop this foolishness and put me down on solid ground right this minute, young lady!'

Lethe's face filled his vision, her eyes becoming huge twin harvest moons. Palmer wanted to scream, but there was no breath inside him. The child he had cared for for the better part of three years was nowhere to be found in this strange, glowing woman.

You are the First of my Bridegrooms. The First to engage in the wedding flight. Do not fear me, William Palmer. This is your reward for your years of nurturing. You are being honored.

Palmer shuddered as he felt his p.e.n.i.s stiffen, responding to hormonal cues older than upright posture. He kept telling himself that it wasn't happening, that he wasn't being ravaged against his will by a glowing woman as they sped across the night sky, that in fact he had pa.s.sed out in a pool of his own p.i.s.s in the kitchen. Even as o.r.g.a.s.m seized his body and wadded it up like a piece of old newspaper, he kept telling himself it was just a dream, nothing more.

When he woke up, it was to find himself lying in an orchard, miles from his home. He was naked, his safari shorts lost somewhere along the way. His head throbbed with a monstrous hangover and his crotch was sticky and smelled of s.e.x. Palmer rolled onto his stomach and began to sob, tearing at the gra.s.s with clawing hands. Then he threw up.

There was the sound of a twig snapping, and Palmer began looking around for something with which to cover himself.

He froze at the sight of the young native girl, a basket of fruit balanced atop her head, staring down at him. He could tell by her diminutive stature and the shape of her eyes and cheekbones that she was one of the Lacandon, the descendants of the ancient Mayan kings who once ruled the land before the arrival of the conquistadores. The girl regarded him curiously, but did not seem to be afraid or alarmed by his nakedness.

'Are you well, senor?' she asked.

Palmer began to laugh, which made the girl look at him even more oddly. 'No. I am not well at all.' This made him laugh even harder. Then he threw up some more.

She'd overslept somewhat and nearly missed the funeral. She made it just in time to see Shirley Thorne's casket lowered to its final rest. It was made of mahogany and shone like a burnished shield in the dying sun. A large floral tribute rested atop, clutching it like a spider. After each of the mourners tossed the traditional handful of sod into the grave, they broke up and wandered towards the phalanxes of black limos, BMWs, and Rolls-Royces.

Sonja stood at a distance, screened from view by a weeping angel. She scanned the milling crowd, trying to spot the faces of family and friends, but it was no use. The only person she recognized was Jacob Thorne.

He looked considerably older than the last time she'd seen him, five years ago. The iron will and steely resolve that had made him a millionaire several times over had succ.u.mbed to rust. Jacob Thorne, once the mightiest industrialist this side of Howard Hughes, had become an old man. When the last of the mourners shook his hand and muttered their sympathies, Thorne did not move to join them in leaving the cemetery. Instead, Denise's father stood by his wife's open grave, hands clasped before him, peering down into the hole as if he could see the future in its depths. No doubt he did.

Sonja moved from her hiding place, gliding between the headstones as if maneuvering across a dance floor. She knew he was not her father. At least not the part of her that called itself Sonja. She knew this as surely as she knew that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. She opened her mouth to call his name, to say 'Mr Thorne'; but what came out was: 'Daddy?'

Jacob Thorne looked up from his wife's grave. He did not seem surprised to see her. But neither did he appear pleased.

His brow furrowed and his scowl deepened.

'Somehow I knew you'd be here.'

'Mr Thorne? Is everything all right?' Thorne's chauffeur made his way towards the grave site. He was a big man with an obvious holster bulge inside his jacket.

Thorne dismissed his bodyguard with a wave of his hand.

Sonja could see that it was covered with liver spots. 'It's okay, Carl. I know the young lady.'

She joined Thorne at the lip of the grave. It was very dark down there. And lonely.

'I... I'm sorry. Did she ... did she suffer?'

Thorne shrugged, his shoulders looking thin and narrow in his suit. 'In her way. But that was always Shirley's prerogative - suffering. She was designed for self-martyrdom. Agonizing over Denise was the one thing that kept her going.' He looked at her, his eyes hard. 'You killed her, you know that? Whatever it was you did to her mind that night - the night she finally accepted Denise's death - that was the beginning of the end for her. She just gave up living after that.'

'Please believe me when I tell you I meant only to help her, to free her from her madness. I never intended to harm her.

She ... she was my mother.'

Thorne's pale features suddenly grew red and he began to tremble. He pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and used it to blot his face. 'The h.e.l.l she was! I don't know who or what - you are, but you are not Denise!'

'No. I am not Denise anymore. But once, a long time ago.

A lifetime ago ...' Sonja bent and gathered a handful of dirt.

It felt damp and rich between her fingers. It struck the lid of her mother's casket with a dull thud. 'Mr Thorne, I did not ask to come into this world. Nor did Denise ask to leave it.

I did not choose to be what I am.'

Thorne looked at her again, the hardness leaking from his eyes. 'No. I guess you didn't.'

'I... I have memories now and again. Some are dim. Others are quite vivid. There is one of a birthday party - there were other children, a clown, a man giving pony rides ...'

Thorne barked a laugh, sounding both surprised and pleased by the memory. 'You couldn't possibly remember that! You were only two years--' He cut himself short, his hands fisting the handkerchief into a ball. 'I mean, Denise was only two years old at the time.'

'Your wife was wearing a dress with a Peter Pan collar and a big skirt - she was so pretty. And happy. And the birthday cake was vanilla with pink icing--'

'Why are you telling me this?' Thorne's eyes gleamed with anger and tears. His voice was tight, wavering on the verge of breaking down. 'Isn't it enough I've lost my wife? Do you have to make me relive the loss of my daughter as well?'

'Mr Thorne, there is another place beyond this world.

Several, actually. Every man, woman, and child holds the keys to heaven and h.e.l.l within them. There are as many different paradises as there are living things. Just as there are innumerable varieties of d.a.m.nation. I just want you to know that your wife is happy now.!

'That's what the minister said,' Thorne sniffed contemptuously.

' "She's in a better place, Jacob. She's beyond the pain of this world." Hmph!'

'Mr Thorne, would you say that I might be something of an authority on the supernatural?'

Thorne looked at her oddly, as if it had never occurred to him that a vampire might actually be evidence of there being something beyond the worm and the tomb and the winding sheet.

'Mr Thorne, your wife is at peace. You see, heaven means different things to everyone. And, for your wife, heaven was an afternoon in 1955, celebrating the birthday of her only child.' Thorne nodded his head. 'Yes ... yes, I could see where it would be. I... I-- Oh, G.o.d Tears began to run down his cheeks. No doubt they were the first real ones he'd shed since his wife died. His shoulders shook so violently he looked like he was about to topple headlong into the open grave. 'Dear G.o.d, Denise--'

He reached for her with his trembling, old man's hand, but she was already gone.

By the time she got back everything had turned to s.h.i.t. She could smell it the moment she got off the plane in Cozumel.

The psychic stench a dead relationship gives off is a lot like that of days-old fish mixed with vomit and a garnish of dirty diapers.

The closer she drew to Merida, the more powerful the reek became. She had no idea what had happened during her absence, but it had not been good.

The house was empty when she arrived, the front door unlocked. She scanned for signs of life and came up empty.

The kitchen table was covered with unpaid bills, unopened mail, and empty tequila bottles. Lots of tequila bottles. Sonja went out onto the patio, searching for signs of Lethe's coc.o.o.n, but all she found was something that looked like pieces of snake molt, made brittle and black from exposure to the sun.

'Lethe?' Sonja called out, half expecting her stepdaughter to come rushing from some hiding place, giggling in delight at having tricked her. There was no answer.

'Lethe?'

Silence.

She went back into the house and headed for the nursery.