Paint it black, p.1
Paint It Black, page 1
part #3 of Sonja Blue Series
Sonja Blue Book 3
Paint it Black
Nancy A. Collins
Copyright @ 1992
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Portions of this novel, in a slightly different form, first appeared in the chapbook COLD TURKEY, published in 1992 by Crossroads Press.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of my good friend Dave Ryan (1953-1992).
Smoke `em if you got `em, dude.
PRELUDE
Particularly
When something like a dog is barking
When something like a goose is born a freak
When something like a fox is luminous
When something like a tortoise crystallizes
When something like a wolf slides by
All these things are harmful to the health of man.
- Hagiwara Sakataro, "Harmful Animals"
It's a beautiful world.
I look out across the pre-dawn rooftops. Most of the buildings are still dark, except for scattered windows that mark early risers and insomniacs. The moon is down and the sun has yet to make its appearance, leaving the city to a darkness that is deeper than midnight. Now is the time for the changing of the guard.
I look down on the streets from my perch and watch the night-things begin their retreat. I don't mean prostitutes and drunkards and other so-called "night owls." I refer to creatures that are genuinely nocturnal. Things that shrink from the first touch of the sun's rays for fear of burning.
A succubus wearing the outer appearance of a crack-whore barters with a drunken older man. The succubus lifts its head, nostrils flaring as it scents the coming dawn, and speeds up the transaction. The older man seems pleased that he is getting such a good deal on pussy as they stagger into a darkened alley. I doubt he'll think it's such a bargain when, in the middle of his five-dollar fuck, the whore's body starts revealing razored mouths in places he never dreamed of.
I spot a pack of vargr making their way down a connecting street. The early hour and the accompanying darkness have made them hold, and they run in their skins. They are young, at least by werewolf standards, and still given to such acts of rebellion. They lope along, two abreast and three deep, almost on all fours. They snap and growl and bark at the shadows. Any human unlucky enough to encounter them might, at first glance, mistake them for a pack of feral dogs - household pets gone wild. But once they stood up on their hind legs, baying to signal an attack, the illusion would be torn asunder and the truth revealed. For all the good it would do their victim.
The werewolves pass by quickly, headed in the direction of the abandoned warehouses lining the riverfront where they make their den.
Not long after the vargr run past, a homeless man emerges from a piss-soaked doorway. He is dressed in rags, his feet encased in busted-out boots stuffed full of newspaper. I study him a bit closer, thinking he might be a seraph in disguise. But no, he is a genuine vagrant. He is probably old, but it is hard to tell for sure because of the grime caking his hands and face. He might be black, maybe not. He is clutching an empty pint of vodka in one hand and muttering aloud to himself. He tilts back the bottle, tonguing the neck for one last drop. His brow furrows when he realizes it's empty and, in a sudden burst of rage, he shrieks an obscenity and hurls the bottle to the curb. The Sound it makes as it breaks is impressively loud in the pre-dawn silence.
The bum seems to find a certain pleasure in making noise and continues to do so. He rants at the top of his lungs, his ravings bouncing off the surrounding buildings like a handball. He finds a garbage can to knock over and kick. A bottle or two to dash against the curb. just as he seems to be losing steam, there is the sound of leathery wings against air and he is gone. I look up just in time to spot a large black shape silhouetted against the dark sky. It looks to be carrying something almost as large as itself in its talons. No doubt a diligent gargoyle matriarch out hunting for prey to feed her hungry chicks.
As the sky slowly lightens, I spot my own prey. It moves swiftly, clinging to the shadows as it hurries to its nest. Its pallid features and blood-red eyes make me want to puke. I hate these creatures more than all the other Pretending races combined. The very sight of them makes my palms itch and my gut tighten. All I want to do is drive my silver switchblade deep into their worm-fed hearts. Fucking lousy bloodsuckers.
I do not want to lose the vampire's trail, so I abandon my perch. I grin in anticipation of the slaughter that is to follow; the morning breeze is chill against my exposed fangs. Without further delay, I crawl headfirst down the side of the four-story building I've been using as my observation tower and hurry after my victim.
It's a beautiful world.
— from the diaries of Sonja Blue
1
WHEN THE DEAD LOVE
Thou who, abruptly as a knife,
Didst come into my heart; thou who,
A demon horde into my life
Didst enter, wildly dancing, through
The doorways of my sense unlatched
To make my spirit thy domain.
- Baudelaire, "The Vampire"
I see the world through ancient eyes.
They are not the eyes of an old man, dimmed by age and clouded by cataracts. And while my mind is filled with memories, I never find myself lost in the tangle of interconnecting association or the fog of recollection.
My time on earth has been tenfold that of the oldest human. I am ancient. But I am not old. I stand outside the time-stream that ages mortal flesh, makes bones brittle as glass, teeth crack like chalk. I need never fear that my world will telescope downward to what little light and sound can be strained through failing sensory apparatus.
I look upon some of the aged creatures I have personally known and sported with in years past and marvel at their irretrievable descent into decay. A breast that was once as succulent and firm as a fresh melon is now a withered dug, hanging flat and wrinkled. A penis, once proud and full of the malt of life, is now good only for the elimination of waste.
This is mankind's heritage. Its destiny. All of humanity's triumphs and advance, - its art, science, technology, and philosophy - reduced to a lump of sweatingflesh straining on a nameless bed. Being mortal as individuals, humans seek to embrace eternity as a species. And while I consider such attempts at "immortality" laughable, through their relentless breeding humans have succeeded in maintaining a certain continuity throughout the centuries.
I have kept a journal for seven hundred years. There are literally thousands of volumes, stored in a hundred different hiding places scattered over three continents. I have no genuine memories of my life as a human, except for those preserved in faded ink on these crumbling pages. The sentiments, dreams and fears expressed in those earliest entries belong to a creature forever beyond my ken, thanks be to the forces that Made me.
Still, humans have their uses. Of course they provide my kind with sustenance: that deep red vintage that is so much sweeter when stolen from its host. That much goes without saying. But there are other, more subtle, more...rarefied pleasures, to be had at their expense.
Allow me to elaborate....
There are several nightclubs in this city that cater to those humans whose personal tastes, like those of my own kind, have nothing to do with procreation. There is one club in particular - The Ossuary - I enjoy frequenting.
It's located in the meat-packing district. In fact, I was just there the night before. The exterior of The Ossuary is very unprepossessing - no different from the rest of the drab warehouses lining the street. But the interior is - by human standards - quite inspired. The walls are painted matte black and festooned with the bones of the various beasts who have met their fate at the hands of the neighbors. The boiled, peeled and bleached skulls of creatures bovine, porcine, caprine, and equine stare blankly at the prancing hairless primates responsible for their destruction, bearing mute witness to the rituals of orchestrated pain and degradation played out before their empty sockets.
Entry to The Ossuary's dank pleasure-rooms is expensive - membership in the club runs in the low four figures. One-time "tickets of passage" for curious visitors can cost upward of fifty dollars apiece, and there's always a line to get in.
Tonight is no exception. As I move to the head of the line, the bouncer nods his head in recognition and steps aside to allow me passage. They know me here, as I am known in dozens of similar establishments throughout the rest of the Americas, Europe and Asia.
I breeze past the combination dressing-undressing room, where the club's regulars change into their preferred costumes for the evening's entertainment. I have no need for such theatrics. The thump of the disco and the smell of dry ice make me smile, ever so slightly, in anticipation of the night's hunt. The cavernous main room is filled with people - some well-dressed, others naked - milling about under the strobing lights. Beautiful fashion models, made trim and perfect by strict diets and surgery, move among tattooed and creatively pierced grotesques.
A stylishly dressed businessman, looking as if he', lust vacated a Wall Street brokerage house, his power tie loosed slightly at the collar, leans against the bar. He simultaneously watches vintage Times Square porno loops on the massive video screen suspended from the ceiling, gropes the tightly trussed rear of a transvestite, and sips draft beer.
Studding the main room are several tableaux areas: a rack; a man-sized doghouse, complete with food bowl; a mirrored jail cell; manacle, and stocks of every description. Some of the equipment is available for use of patrons, for a nominal fee. The snap and crack of whip, rods, and paddle, on wriggling backsides fill the air.
I scan the assemblage for potential prey. I spot a beautifully coiffured blonde sitting on a barstool, staring imperiously into space as a drudge licks her boots clean. A second slave kneels before her, sucking her fingers one by one. I contemplate the dominatrix for a moment, then pass on. While taking her would no doubt prove amusing, I seek a different diversion for my night's pleasure.
I watch dispassionately as a young girl dressed only in leather boots and a blindfold is strung up by her hands. As she balances precariously on tiptoe, her partner dribbles hot wax onto her exposed buttocks. She whimpers and wiggles her bottom most becomingly. The master puts aside his candle and produces a whip, the head of which he inserts into his compliant slave, lifting her off her feet. She shrieks and moans at this violation, her hips bucking to the beat of a Cure song.
A naked man with a junior executive's paunch stands off to the sidelines, watching the couple. He pulls on his semi-hard penis with his right hand, but elevation remains elusive. Bored, he turns his voyeur's gaze - as empty as those of the animals mounted on the walls - to a fat, heavily tattooed man kneeling before a tiny Oriental woman armed with a cat-o'-nine-tails. The tattooed man's penis is clamped in the jaws of a household mousetrap.
A man dressed in unconvincing drag emerges from the dry-ice smoke of the dance floor, his wig askew, funeral crêpe wrapped about his exposed penis, lead fishing lures hanging from his testicles. He smiles at me; his eyes are unfocused and unreadable, even to me.
I find what I'm looking for in a young couple dressed in leather bondage gear. The female wears a brassiere with holes cut in the cups that allow her pierced nipples to protrude, and a peaked cap reminiscent of those once favored by the Gestapo. The male wears a spike-studded halter that displays his tattoos to their best advantage. A leather bondage mask hangs from his belt. Both wear tight-fitting leather chaps that expose their pale ass cheeks. With their blond hair, tanned good looks and complementing body-work, they could be easily mistaken for fraternal twins. Perhaps they are.
The male seems a bit dubious at first, appraising my ruined eye and the scar that twists the right side of my face into a perpetual sneer. But while I might not be physically attractive enough to suit his tastes, I appear to have the necessary wealth. In the end they prove pathetically easy to snare - all it takes is the promise of free drugs and a night of excess at a fashionable address. As we leave, I probe their minds, expertly tweaking their pleasure centers while dampening their sense of self-preservation. Humans who frequent these clubs are far from cautious by the normal standards of the herd, but I find it prudent to lull them into a false sense of security all the same.
It is early morning, and as the club prepares to seal its doors against the coming dawn, the city's butchers can be seen starting their day's work, unloading freshly slain sides of beef and pork from refrigerated vans. High pressure hoses sluice the blood from the loading docks into the gutters, where it mixes with the vomit, urine, and used condoms from the night before, filling the air with the fragrant aroma of spent meat. I find it most invigorating.
The leather couple oohs and aahs appreciatively at the sight of my vintage Rolls and the uniformed driver who awaits my return. We climb inside and I offer my new playthings cocaine and champagne in copious quantities as we roll through the streets.
They indulge themselves to excess, giggling and snorting and groping one another as I watch, smiling quietly.
The male fixes me with a questioning gaze, his eyes made hot and wet by drugs and my manipulation of his brain chemistry. "So - what's your particular kink, buddy?" He smiles slowly, knowingly. "You like to watch? Is that it?"
He slides his gloved hand between the female's thighs, massaging her mons veneris.
I return the drunken idiot's clueless grin. "Yes. I like to watch."
The leather couple is duly impressed when we arrive at our destination: a stylish loft apartment that utilizes the entire top floor of what was once a furrier's warehouse. The interior is an austere variant of Art Deco, all shining chrome and black marble decorated here and there by expensive Persian carpets, atmospherically lit by cunningly arranged track lighting.
I shrug out of my coat and smile comfortingly at my playthings. I take my place in an over-padded leather-easychair, light a French cigarette, and cross my legs. I gesture to a corner of the room - an area of exposed brick walls, bare metal pipes and a stained concrete floor. Handcuffs are attached to one of the radiator pipes, leg manacles are set into the wall, and a metal trapeze hangs suspended at eye level from the rafters. An array of punishment devices hangs from a row of pegs.
"Why don't you show me what you do best?"
The leather couple exchange glances and shrug. As far as they are concerned, I am a jaded, somewhat physically repugnant jet-setter with too much time and money on his hands.
The male removes his bondage mask from his belt and slips it on. With its zippered mouth and eye holes, it resembles a leather scarecrow's face. The male grabs the female by the hair and drags her over to the pipe, where he handcuffs her with her arms over her head, her buttocks pointed in my direction. The male selects a cat-o'-nine-tails and, after a couple of experimental snaps, brings it down on his partner's ass.
The female squeals and wriggles as the male rains blow after blow onto her upturned derriere, leaving angry red welts across the creamy expanse of her jiggling cheeks. I yawn.
This seems to aggravate the male, although it's hard to tell with the bondage mask on.
"What's the matter? Isn't this good enough for you, scarface?" he snaps, turning from his trussed partner to glower at me.
I pretend to let his insult go unnoticed. "You haven't even broken the skin!" I sniff. "I want the Real Thing, not this candy-coated pretense!"
The male mutters something to himself and returns his attention to his slave, smacking her unprotected backside with even greater ferocity. The female shudders and weeps, struggling against her restraints as blood fills the paper-thin cuts striping her ass.
After a few minutes of this, the male stops to change hands, shaking the blood from the cat. He turns to fix me with a challenging stare from behind the safety of his mask.
"Is this real enough for you, you one-eyed bastard?" he snarls, slapping his partner's blood-smeared flank with the flat of his hand.
"You're not even close," I smile. "Here: allow me to show you how it's done."
He stands aside, hands on his hips, expecting me to get up and take the whip from him. Instead, I simply force my mind into his skull.
The male's body twitches as I penetrate him between the eyes; his limbs convulse involuntarily as I seize control of his nervous system. As far as he is concerned, he has been suddenly, inexplicably struck blind, deaf, and dumb. I am the only one who can hear him screaming inside his head.
I give him back his eyes and ears, but I don't allow him to open his mouth. Screaming is not allowed. Not yet.
The female turns to look at what she believes is still her partner, her eyes confused. "Frankie?"
The male grabs a handful of the female's long, flowing blond hair. I pause long enough to savor its silkiness against borrowed fingertips, then proceed to pound the captive woman's head repeatedly against the steam pipe.
At first she's too startled to respond. By the second blow she begins to struggle and swear. The punishment my surrogate is meting out is not the kind she craves.
"Frankie! Stop it, you fucker! You're hurting me, dammit!"
I have my plaything slam her head into the pipe a third time. A fourth. One of her retinas detaches. Blood streams from her nostrils, making the bottom of her face look like a clown's mouth. The female goes limp by the sixth blow, cranial fluid leaking from her ears and the corners of her eyes.
Humans have so many foolish preconceptions concerning my kind: that we cannot walk in the light of day; that we burn at the touch of religious icons; that we survive on a diet of human blood. That last bit is true, in part. Yes, blood is indeed the life. But to feed on blood alone - do humans subsist on nothing but bread and water? Of course not. And neither do we.
