Sonja Blue - Paint It Black Part 17

When Charlie Gower woke up, he found himself being tended to by a tribe of Ngaanatjara, several hundred miles south of Ayers Rock. His skin was darker than a beetlenut, and there was what looked like tribal scarring on his face and belly. He wasn't sure if he'd done that to himself or if the Dream Woman was responsible. The first day he was in the Ngaanatjara camp he wondered how he was going to get back home to Canberra. On the second day he wondered if he still had a job, or if someone else was drawing hats on beer-packing kangaroos. On the third day he said to h.e.l.l with it and declared Charlie Gower dead. From now on there was only Djabo, picture-maker and sorcerer to the Ngaanatjara. And that's who he remained for the rest of his life.

She's here.

Lords of the Outer Dark preserve me, she's here.

One of my operatives saw her the other day, prowling the streets of Chinatown, asking questions about Wretched Fly. Clever girl. Very clever. Seek out the master by tracing his servant. It will only be a matter of a day or two -- if not hours -- before she connects Wretched Fly with Kepa Hudie. Then my years of rehearsal will be behind me, and I will find myself faced with the real thing.

The question is: am I ready? Am I ready to cast aside my proxies and step inside the tiger's cage? Why do I even ask myself such a question? Am I not Morgan, Lord of the Morning Star? In the past I would no more ponder such things than I would walk unprotected in daylight. But that was before our last meeting. She did more than permanently mark me - that alone was insult enough - she took something from me as well. As we battled on the psychic combat field, in the Place Between Places, she absorbed a part of me shaped in the form of a chimera. By doing that, she gained a certain control over me. She made me love her.

It is not fair that I should find love now. I have prided myself on loving no one and nothing in seven hundred and fifty-three years. Love makes fools even of the shrewdest player -- witness how it led Pangloss to the tragic mistake of making me his equal. I certainly never loved the loathsome old pervert, either as a human or as a vampire. Either I tolerated his attentions or else I would undergo the gelder's knife and sing as one of the castrati in Celestine IV's papal choir.

I have heard from reliable sources that Pangloss is dead, or close enough to it. The old fool finally succ.u.mbed to the Ennui. Good for him.

I have walked throughout my existence without fear of wounds, or capture, or slavery, for I have worn death as my armor. Nothing living could move my heart or stir me to more than the basest appet.i.te.

But now I find myself gazing into the eyes of Medusa, reflected back at me by my own shield, and I find myself smitten. It is not fair that I have found love, for I do not want it and it will destroy me if I give it half a chance.

She's here. She's finally, really here.

I can hardly wait.

From the journals of Sir Morgan, Lord of the Morning Star.

Chinatown had proven a hard nut to crack, even for one such as herself. All Asian communities are fiercely cliquish, but none more so than New York's. Low faan, be they Anglo, black, or Hispanic, stick out like sore thumbs in its overcrowded streets.

She could use her telepathic abilities only so far - most human minds were not designed to withstand intrusive scans. If she wasn't careful, their consciousness could very well crumble like an elaborate sugar confection, rendering them useless, both to her and themselves. Still, there were those who would always provide information - for a price.

There was nothing to distinguish the front of the Yankee China Drugstore from any of the others on the block. The windows of the old herb pharmacy were so dusty most pa.s.sersby would automatically a.s.sume it was no longer in business.

They would be wrong.

A little bell over the threshold rang as she entered the shop.

The inside was dark and dusty, although she could make out the original fixtures dating from the middle of the last century. A twenty-foot-long gilded screen of chrysanthemums and grinning lions blocked the view into the back of the store.

A couple of faded paper lanterns hung from the pressed-tin ceiling. A long wooden counter with gla.s.s windows displayed ma.s.s-produced ceramic Buddhas and Mah-Jongg sets and even cheaper tea sets with poorly woven wicker handles. Everything was coated by a fine patina of dust.

A young Chinese man dressed in gray sweats stepped out from behind the screen that blocked access to the rest of the store. He looked hesitant, obviously unprepared for a low faan entering the establishment.

'I'm looking for Hu Tong of the Junren Mao.'

The young man shook 'his head vigorously. 'No here. No one that name here. You got wrong place maybe yes.'

'Don't hand me that c.r.a.p,' Sonja snapped back in Cantonese.

'Hu Tong has been operating out of this store for one hundred and thirty-six years, give or take a year. Now go tell him he's got a customer!'

'Go back to work, Pei Lu,' purred a deep masculine voice from behind the screen. 'I shall see to our customer myself.'

Hu Tong, chieftain of the Junren Mao, stepped out from behind the gilded screen and fixed Sonja with his eyes of lambent green. It was hard to decide which was more impressive, his formal mandarin dress, complete with elaborately embroidered dragon robe and peac.o.c.k-feather ta.s.sel, or the fact that he had the head of a tiger.

'Greetings, Hu Tong, it has been a long time since last we met.'

Hu Tong bowed his head slightly, his hands remaining tucked inside the sleeves of his p'u-fu jacket. 'As humans estimate such things, it has indeed been many years. Six, is it not?'

'I am in dire need of information, Hu Tong.'

'Of course. Why else would you come to the chieftain of the Cat Soldiers? Certainly not to drink tea and gossip.'

'I'm looking for a man. A Chinese human. Late forties.

He's missing his right eye. His name is Wretched Fly. He's a psychic -and a powerful one, at that. He is a renfield in the service of a vampire called Morgan.'

Hu Tong removed his hands from his sleeves and picked up an abacus from behind the counter. His nails were over four inches long and tipped by protective gold sheaths that kept them from growing crooked. 'I see. And how do you propose paying for such information, provided it is mine to give?'

Sonja produced a bundle wrapped in plain brown paper and twine. A wax seal the color of old blood, bearing the imperial mark of the Ch'ing Dynasty, was affixed to the top of the package.

Hu Tong's ears moved toward the front of his head.

'This is the yen hop of Fu-Lin, first of the Manchurian emperors. It is yours.'

Hu Tong"s claws tore through the paper and twine as easily as they would tissue paper, exposing a black lacquer box, the lid inset with mother-of-pearl and fine jade in the shape of a peac.o.c.k. With trembling fingers, he carefully placed the opium box's contents on the counter. The pipe was made of ivory with silver filigree and a golden mouthpiece. The bowl for the opium was made of gold, as were the dipping needle and the scissors for cutting the bricks into pills. Hu Tong regained his composure and bowed to show his appreciation.

'You honor me greatly, my friend. I am not certain, but I believe that the man you seek is of the Bot Fun Guey, the White Powder Ghosts. The Ghosts are a gang that deals largely in heroin and human cargo. Until recently, they were relatively small and of no consequence, compared to the On Leong and Hip Sing tongs. But in the last year they've suddenly grown quite powerful in Chinatown. They've branched out into smuggling humans into this country and gambling. They are known to be quite vicious in their dealings with others and their leader, Kepa Hudie, is said to be a sorcerer. He is missing his right eye and wears a patch embroidered with a luck dragon.'

Sonja smiled and returned Hu Tong's bow. 'I thank you, Hu Tong. Perhaps some day soon we can sit and drink tea and gossip. But as of now I have much to do.'

'Be careful, Sonja. The White Powder Ghosts are indeed fierce enemies.'

'So am I.'

Wretched Fly sat with his back to a wall full of sharks and sipped a cup of fragrant tea. He chose the Black Lotus Restaurant as his headquarters because of the wall-length salt.w.a.ter fish tank filled with dog sharks, blowfish, rays, jellyfish, and other colorful, if far from pleasant, denizens of the deep. It helped his reputation as a kiu ling, a tong big shot, to be seen in such impressive surroundings.

In the last year he'd turned the White Powder Ghosts from a gang of scruffy drug runners into a force to be reckoned with in Chinatown - and soon Taipei and Hong Kong.

Wretched Fly caught a glimpse of his reflection in the tank's gla.s.sy wall. Dressed in an exquisitely tailored sharkskin suit, equally expensive Italian shoes, his dark hair slicked back and his right eye covered by an embroidered black velvet patch, he looked like a boss right out of a Hong Kong gangster flick, an impression he worked hard to maintain. He also worked to sustain the fear - never spoken to his face or even aloud -that he was a black sorcerer.

Oh, that part was true enough, in its way. Wretched Fly or Kepa Hudei, as he was known to the citizens of Chinatown -possessed powers beyond those of most men. He was descended from a long line of psychics born, or so family legend had it, of a tryst between a peasant girl and a Shaolin master.

His family had served the Chinese emperors from the days of Chu I-Chun of the Ming Dynasty until the death of the dowager empress at the turn of the twentieth century.

Wretched Fly's forefathers had deliberately interbred, cultivating some of the finest psionic talents to be found in human stock. Unlike most sensitives, those of Wretched Fly's house were known for their comparative emotional and mental stability. Whether this had to do with genetics or the rigorous physical and mental training based on the teachings of that long-ago monk, not even Wretched Fly himself could say.

In any case, the minds of his fellow men were as transparent to him as the shark wall of the Black Lotus - and filled with similar beasts. He could look at a man and know his hopes, his dreams, his plans, his schemes, even his deepest fears and darkest sins. And, if he did not like what he saw within the heads of those around him, he could reach out and crush them without lifting a finger. He'd done it twice - first to his thuggish predecessor, then again to a lieutenant he'd discovered working a deal with the Chinese Freemasons to overthrow him. Each time his victim collapsed to the floor, hemorrhaging from the eyes, ears, and nose.

Of course, no one knew the truth behind the fiction of Kepa Hudei, not even the sweet-faced little wife he'd taken earlier that month. No one knew his true name, or that the feared crime lord served a master far more powerful than the Triad bosses in Hong Kong. Wretched Fly had set himself up as a big shot in the underworld of Chinatown on orders from his one true master - Sir Morgan, Lord of the Morning Star.

Wretched Fly had been a servant of the vampire n.o.ble for fifteen years, ever since Sir Morgan won him from his previous owner, a mandarin vampire named Shou Xi. Wretched Fly was completely and utterly devoted to his master. There was nothing he would not do for him - nothing he had not done. He had even lost his eye in the service of his liege lord.

If his master decreed that he should take control of a struggling gang and turn it into one of the most feared and powerful crime cartels in the city, then he would do so. His master found the combination of emotions generated by the smuggling of human cargo into the country most exhilarating.

On the one hand there was the excitement and antic.i.p.ation of arriving in the fabled 'land of gold'. On the other there was the disillusionment the new arrivals felt once they realized they were indentured to their smugglers for thirty thousand dollars, and were to be used as slave labor in restaurants and sweatshops scattered throughout the city. Their despair at ever earning their freedom was compounded by a paralyzing fear of the tongs. Morgan found this emotional melange especially the curdled hope - to be quite exquisite. After all, vampires did not exist off blood alone. The more sophisticated ones, such as Wretched Fly's master, required a psychic buffet in order to keep themselves in power.

Wretched Fly eyed the main dining room of the Black Lotus, automatically scanning everyone present as he did so. It was early evening, but the restaurant had yet to see any business. Not that it mattered. Wretched Fly paid the owner a handsome sum to make sure the place was open whenever he had a craving for steamed mussels in oyster sauce. Which was almost daily. The restaurant was on the top floor of a business tower on the edge of Chinatown, a stone's throw from the Tombs, and the only way in or out was via the elevator that faced the main dining room. Wretched Fly always made sure he was facing the elevator.

This afternoon the only people in the restaurant besides the owner, his wife, and the kitchen staff were Wretched Fly's bodyguards, Bing Yan and Zhong Ming. Both were young, energetic, stupid, and s.a.d.i.s.tic. No doubt they would go far in the gang. No one was thinking anything dangerous to him. And, as was the case with his bodyguards, some were not even thinking at all. Good. That suited Wretched Fly just fine.

Then the elevator doors pinged open and a cloud of hate as thick as a swarm of angry hornets boiled into the room.

Sonja Blue stepped out of the elevator into the main dining room of the Black Lotus Restaurant. Despite the intensity of the hatred radiating from her, her physical manner was quite nonchalant, almost insulting. Her hands were in the pockets of her leather jacket, her shoulders slumped. The owner of the restaurant, dressed in a suit and bow tie, stepped forward, smiling nervously and clutching a menu as if it was a shield.

'Yes? One for dinner? Smoking?'

Sonja shook her head and pointed at Wretched Fly. 'No thanks. I'm here to see that man sitting over there.'

The owner's smile faltered and his eyes flickered in the direction of Wretched Fly.

'That not possible.'

Sonja slid past the owner as if he didn't exist. Bing Yan and Zhong Ming moved to block her path. They were dressed in cheaper, less fashionable versions of their headman's suit, which did little to disguise the bulges made by their shoulder holsters. Bing Yan wore wraparound sungla.s.ses, while Zhong Ming chewed an ivory toothpick.

'You go now. This not your place,' said Bing Yan, who was the more proficient in English. 'You stay, you get hurt maybe yes.'

Sonja stroked her chin and nodded to herself, as if weighing the wisdom of the thug's words. 'You know, you've got a point there, buddy.' She'began to turn, as if she'd thought better of her actions. Bing Yan and Zhong Ming exchanged knowing smirks.

Sonja's fist caught Zhong Ming in the side of the head, sending the ivory toothpick in his mouth flying across the room, accompanied by a shower of teeth and blood. Bing Yan caught a spray of his friend's blood in the face and cried out in alarm and disgust, wiping at his eyes with one hand while going for his gun with the other. To his surprise, his holster was empty. Then he saw his gun in the hand of the strange woman.

'Lost something, laughing boy?' Sonja asked as she slammed the b.u.t.t of the gun directly between Bing Yan's eyebrows, dropping him like an ox.

The owner's wife came out from behind the register, screaming hoa.r.s.ely into her hands, her eyes starting from her head.

The owner held her by the shoulders, his eyes fixed on Sonja.

He was too frightened to be anything but concerned for his wife.

'Get out of here!' she told them. They stared at her, their English destroyed by their terror. She repeated herself, this time in Cantonese, and they bolted into the kitchen.

Zhong Ming was still crawling on the floor, spitting up pieces of molar and bicuspid like they were Mah-Jongg tiles.

As Sonja moved towards Wretched Fly's table he clawed frantically at his shoulder holster. The steel tip of Sonja's right boot caught him in the side, lifting him off the carpet and filling his lungs with broken ribs.

Wretched Fly did not stand to greet her, but nodded his head in acknowledgment. 'So, we meet again, halfling.'

'I see you remember me.'

'One does not forget being maimed,' he said, lifting a hand to caress the velvet of his eyepatch.

'You know why I'm here, Wretched Fly.'

'I will not tell you where he is, even if he demanded it himself. But, please, be seated, Ms Blue.' He gestured to the chair opposite him.'

Sonja sat down, never taking her eyes off him. 'You would disobey him? You have changed, haven't you?'

'My loyalty is without end. It is because of this that I would keep you from him.'

'You must not have much faith in your master's power if you fear a "halfling" such as myself.'

Wretched Fly's remaining eye flashed angrily. 'You wounded my master. You ruined that which was without flaw. But I must share the blame, for if I had succeeded in killing you that night in San Francisco, my master would never have been harmed. My punishment for failing was being blinded.'

'Let's get to it, then.'

Wretched Fly placed his hands, palms downward, against the table. Sonja did the same. And the battle began.

She was standing in the middle of a Chinese watercolor, the kind found on calendars. In the distance were hazy mountains, green blobs against a pale blue sky. There was the suggestion of a waterfall, the artful representation of bamboo - but none of it was real. It was a clever approximation of place, nothing more than stage dressing. Sonja knew that they were in the no man's land known as the Place Between Places, the limbo where all psychic battles were fought.

There was the sound of silk banners snapping in a high wind and something hurtled down out of the painted sky, knocking her to her knees. There was pain and Sonja stared at the hole ripped in the right sleeve of her leather jacket, and at the blood welling up from the deep scratches scoring her flesh. Although she was not physically harmed, she knew only too well that wounds dealt and suffered during psychic combat were all too real, in their own way.

She looked up into the sky and saw her attacker framed against the sun, fluttering like a kite. The storm dragon grinned down at her, thunderclouds pouring from its flared nostrils, making it look like it had a mustache. Its razor-sharp talons glistened with her blood.

The storm dragon spoke to her then, and its voice was that of Wretched Fly.

You are strong, halfling. I will give you that. But you lack finesse. You are like a child, destroying what it does not like.

In this world, I am the one who is to be feared - not you!

As if to prove the point, the storm dragon went into a power-dive, extending its claws like landing gear. Sonja tried to run, but it was no use - the dragon was too fast. It caught her from behind, s.n.a.t.c.hing her up like a hawk would a rabbit.

Wretched Fly's imago tightened its grip, sending talons deep into her belly and back. Sonja kicked and hammered her fists against the dragon's claws, coughing blood as she cursed Wretched Fly at the top of her lungs.

It ends now. You have caused my master much trouble, halfling. With you dead, Morgan will be as he once was. His love will be mine, and mine alone, as is my right.

Sonja opened her mouth and Wretched Fly wondered if she was begging for mercy. He hoped so. He would like it if she begged. But as her mouth continued to stretch, growing wider than it ever could in the world of flesh, he glimpsed three pairs of eyes staring at him from inside her. A three-headed tiger with the tail of a scorpion leapt from the vampire's mouth, its heads roaring in angry unison.

While Wretched Fly was expecting trickery, he was unprepared for the horrible rush of recognition that came when he saw the chimera. Although it had been vomited up by the halfling, the beast was Morgan's. It was more than a familiar of the vampire lord, it was an actual piece of him.

And Wretched Fly had been conditioned from birth never to raise his hand against his master, no matter what the situation.

Sparks flew from the chimera's multiple mouths and its roar was that of swords striking shields. Wretched Fly screamed as the chimera's venomous tail delivered several stings to his dragon body in rapid succession. The storm dragon flickered, became transparent, revealing Wretched Fly coiled within its belly. The chimera pounced on the cowering psychic, sinking its fangs deep into his neck and worrying him as a farm cat would a field mouse.

When it was finished, the chimera returned to Sonja and rubbed its left head against her thigh, purring like a bus left in low gear. Sonja stroked its middle head and wiped the blood from the right head's muzzle.

'Good kitties.'

When she opened her eyes she found Wretched Fly lying facedown on the table, blood seeping from his ears, nose, and remaining eye. Wretched Fly had been a worthy opponent. She couldn't deny him that. And he had, indeed, proven himself loyal to his master. She still had no clue as to Morgan's whereabouts in the city. Then she noticed that all the fish in the wall tank were dead or dying as well. She watched a two-foot-long dog shark thrash out its final agonies then go still, drifting in the captive current. She pushed back her chair and stood on wobbly feet, scanning the room.

The owner stood framed in the door of the kitchen, watching her the way she imagined the first mammals must have watched the tyrannosaurs as they thundered by. He eased out from behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen, staring in horrified silence at the bodies littering his dining room. When he turned to look at Sonja, she fixed his mind in place as neatly as she would a b.u.t.terfly with a hat pin.

'The On Leong did this,' she told him in Cantonese.