Dead Roses for a Blue Lady (21 page)

Frank stared at the gun, then at Phaedra. What he saw in her eyes was enough to turn him on his heel and send him sprinting back in the direction of the motel. He managed to get halfway across the parking lot before she dropped him with a single shot to the right leg.

He lay on the asphalt, writhing in pain as he clutched what remained of his kneecap.

Phaedra hurried to claim her prize, removing the handcuffs she kept hidden in her purse as she crossed the lot with brisk, purposeful strides. Frank cringed in fear, lifting his bloodied hands to shield his face, as she loomed over him.

"Take my wallet, if that's what you want! I don't care! Just don't kill me—!
Please!
I've got a wife and kids!"

Phaedra cursed under her breath and quickly scanned the parking lot for witnesses. The bastard was making too much noise. She would be better off popping him here-and-now and fleeing the scene, starting from scratch in one of the gentlemen's clubs across town.

Phaedra returned the handcuffs to her purse and raised the gun. Frank began to alternately pray and sob out loud.

Before Phaedra could squeeze the trigger, the side door of the bar banged open, causing her to swing the gun in the direction of the noise. She saw a strange woman standing framed in the doorway, dressed in a black leather motorcycle jacket and wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses, even though it was the dead of night.

The stranger did not seem surprised by the sight of a man wallowing on the asphalt, nor was she frightened by the gun pointed in her direction. Instead of turning and running back into the building, the stranger let the door close behind her and gave her right wrist a small, sharp snap. A silver blade in the shape of a frozen flame sprouted from her hand as if by magic. Phaedra gasped in recognition, even though she had never seen the woman before.

The Blue Monster fixed Phaedra with its horrible mirrored eyes and moved towards her

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) with determined, measured steps, its hideous silver fang reflecting the glow from the streetlights.

Phaedra squeezed the trigger of the gun, firing on her approaching enemy. The Blue Monster moved with the fluid grace of underwater ballet, twisting its upper torso one-quarter turn to allow the bullet to pass by. The second bullet, however, caught it in the upper shoulder, knocking it to the ground.

Phaedra looked down at Frank, still cowering at her feet, then at the Blue Monster, who was already picking itself up off the ground, and, with a scream of angry frustration, fled to the waiting Boxter, leaving behind six feet of smoking rubber in her wake.

Sonja sat up and grimaced at the pain radiating from her shoulder. She bit her lower lip, her fangs inadvertently drawing more blood. It felt like the renfield had broken her damn collarbone. Then again, she'd taken slugs to the heart and lungs without much to show for it except some scars. She grunted as she got to her feet, pushing the throbbing in her shoulder to the back of her mind.

She walked over to where the renfield's intended victim lay huddled on the asphalt. He was alive, although his face was starting to go gray from shock. He flinched as she leaned over him.

"Don't shoot me," he whispered.

"I'm not her."

The side door opened and the bartender stuck his head outside.

"What the fuck's going on out here?"

"This man's been shot! Call 911!" she shouted in reply.

The bartender nodded and disappeared back inside the Embers.

Frank shook his head, a look of baffled pain on his face. "Why'd she shoot me?"

"You must have broken the script. You did something she was unprepared for."

Frank laughed without humor. "All I said was that I didn't want to go home with her." His laughter turned into a moan, causing him to close his eyes. When he opened them again, the woman with the mirrored sunglasses was gone. Which suited him just fine. There was something about the way she stared at the blood from his wound that scared him even more than being shot again.

The sound of the front door slamming shut reverberated throughout the house. Startled, the Contessa looked around at the red velvet wallpaper and the gilded rococo statuary that surrounded her on all sides, a look of bafflement on her face. This wasn't Vienna. And she was reasonably sure it wasn't Budapest. But if she was in neither of these places, where was she then? And, more importantly,
when
was she?

Her confused gaze fell to her lap and she caught sight of the grotesque contraptions that served as her legs. Ah, yes. The New World. The city that sprawled along the shores of the great inland freshwater sea. She stared at a heavily brocaded mahogany love seat and saw a long-dead Chief Justice being fellated by a twelve-year-old boy. She shook her head, dislodging the ghost-memory. It was so easy to forget where and when she was

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) these days.

If it wasn't for Magda...no, her name was Gretchen. Wait, that wasn't right, either.

Phaedra? Yes. That was it. If it weren't for her faithful companion, Phaedra, she would become lost within the world inside herself, wandering the shadow-haunted palaces and ballrooms of centuries past.

"Contessa!'

Phaedra burst into the parlor, her mascara smeared and hair in disarray. That more than the look of fear on her companion's face shocked the Contessa back into her senses.

"What is it, child? You look a fright."

Phaedra grabbed the handles of the old woman's wheelchair and began quickly pushing towards the converted dumbwaiter. "We have to leave! We have to leave
right now!"

"Phaedra, what's going on?" The Contessa twisted around in her seat so she could face her companion. "Answer me, young lady!"

Phaedra fumbled with the door to the elevator, her eyes blinded by tears. "I'm so sorry, mistress. I'm so, so sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

Phaedra's shoulders shook as she began to sob. "I've failed you, mistress. Please forgive me."

"Speak plainly, Phaedra! You're starting to annoy me!"

"The Blue Monster is here."

The Contessa gasped involuntarily as phantom pain shot through the stumps of her legs.

She put a trembling hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.

"Are you certain its her?"

"As sure as sunlight burns," Phaedra replied. "Please, Contessa we've got to leave right now! Take the elevator to the ground floor and wait for me by the boathouse. I'll go upstairs and get the strongbox and passports, then I'll bring the car around. I'll have to put you in the trunk—just in case sunrise catches us before I can reach a safe haven."

"But I don't
want
to ride in the trunk," the Contessa said petulantly.

"Please, mistress, not
now!
Just do as I ask!" Phaedra pushed the wheelchair into the elevator and pulled the doors shut behind it. "I'll be down to get you in a couple of minutes. I promise."

The Contessa sat in the darkened elevator, staring at the control panel for a long moment before punching the button.

Phaedra grabbed the top drawer of the bedroom dresser and yanked it out, sending crotchless panties and Wonder Bras flying in every direction. She flipped the drawer over, revealing the manila envelope taped to its bottom. Inside the envelope were numerous identity papers, passports, and documents made out in the various names the Contessa had used over the years. Exactly which pseudonym they would be using to flee the country would be decided later.

Phaedra stuffed the envelope inside a leather satchel, then hurried over to the red leather

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) ottoman and removed its padded lid. Inside the hollowed out footrest was a metal strongbox containing two hundred thousand dollars in bundled currency, a number of credit cards, seven gold Rolex watches, and various pieces of male jewelry they had yet to convert into ready cash. Still, it was enough to take them somewhere far away. The French Riviera, perhaps, maybe the Golden Triangle. Anywhere but here.

As she lifted the strong box from its hiding place, she was surprised to hear the sound of the Contessa's private elevator coming to a stop. She turned and saw the Contessa wheeling herself out of the converted dumbwaiter.

Cursing under her breath, she put aside what she was doing and strode forward, trying her best to keep the panic from showing in her face. "Why aren't you downstairs?"

"I
can't
leave," the Contessa replied, shaking her head.

Phaedra knelt so she could look her mistress in the face, placing a soft, young hand on the Contessa's withered shoulder.

"Why
can't you leave?"

"Because it's time for my bath," the Contessa said, matter-of-factly, her gnarled hand closing on Phaedra's throat, its grip as tight and inescapable as Death's.

There was no mistaking Red Velvet Manor for anything else, even from a distance. The red curtains caused the windows to glow like the eyes of an animal.

Sonja cut the headlights as she came up the long, winding drive approaching the house.

She could see the Boxter the renfield had made her escape in alongside the house, the driver's side door still hanging open. She pulled up behind the sports car, blocking its path.

She twitched her right arm, cupping her hand so it caught the switchblade as it dropped from its hidden sheath within the sleeve.

The front door was standing slightly ajar, the light from the foyer spilling across the veranda. Sonja frowned and glanced up at the second floor windows. Her prey was still here. She could feel it. The question was
why?

It had taken Sonja twenty minutes to find this place. The renfield called Phaedra had that advantage, on top of a good five-minute lead. She cautiously pushed open the front door, but it swung open without incident. She stepped inside the grand foyer, eyeing the decor for hidden tripwires or skulking bodyguards. There were none.

She tilted her head, allowing her mirrored sunglasses to slide to the end of her nose, and dropped her vision into the occult spectrum. What had been empty air a moment before was filled with dark energies that seethed like heat shadows cast against a summer sidewalk.

Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed men dressed in old-fashioned evening clothes, brandy snifters in their hands, watching a large dog mount a naked woman. But it couldn't be a dog, because it had hands. As Sonja turned to get a better look, the shades flickered and disappeared.

Sonja shook her head. She had to keep her guard up and not allow herself to be distracted by shadows. Even though the Contessa might be crippled, she didn't get to be four

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) centuries old on just luck and blood.

Sonja started up the grand staircase, scanning the doors that lined the second floor. They all seemed to be locked save for the one at the end, which stood slightly ajar. She nudged the door all the way open with the toe of her boot. The interior of the room was dark, save for a sliver of light from the half-open bathroom door that fell across the floor, illuminating the blood-red carpet.

"Do not be so hesitant, my dear," said the Contessa from somewhere inside the darkened room. "You have nothing to fear from me."

"Forgive me if I do not believe you," Sonja replied as she crossed the threshold.

The Contessa sat propped up against the padded headboard of a large oval-shaped bed, dressed in a red velvet robe trimmed with monkey fur. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and across the red satin pillows like ink from an overturned bottle. Her skin was milky white and as smooth as alabaster, unmarred by age or imperfection. Her delicate, long-fingered hands were folded in her lap, cradling what looked like the remote control for a TV set.

Sonja glanced about, probing the shadows for signs of an ambush, but all she saw were a pair of prosthetic legs draped over a nearby chair like a pair of empty pants.

"Where is she, witch?"

"She?"
The Contessa asked, arching an eyebrow.

"The renfield."

The Contessa pointed with the remote control in the direction of the bathroom door.

Sonja gave it a wary push and it swung all the way open on its hinges, revealing Phaedra—born into the world as Faye Alice Baker—hung by her heels over the marble tub, her throat slit from ear to ear like a summer hog. The sight didn't surprise Sonja; after all, she had caught the scent of blood the moment she entered the house.

"I
hated
having to do that," the Contessa said, turning the remote control she held over and over again in her hands. "Really I did. But I had no choice. There was no point in running away again. I knew it, and so did Phaedra, although she could not bring herself to admit it. It wouldn't be fair to her, leaving her on her own...What would she do without me? I did her a kindness, really."

"So you put her down rather than leave her to face life without you. How altruistic of you.

I notice you didn't let her blood go to waste."

"I will meet eternity in no skin but this one."

"Once a vain, psychotic bitch, always a vain psychotic bitch, eh? Put down the remote, old woman. I'll be as quick about this as I can."

The Contessa shook her head in defiance. "No! I refuse to die at the hands of a monster such as you! My family once strode the world as kings! What right does a lowborn freak of nature such as yourself have to destroy me? I was Made by my own hand, and by my own hand shall I be Unmade!"

The Contessa pointed the remote at the heavy velvet drapes and pushed the button a final time. The curtains parted like those of a stage and the first rays of the rising sun spilled across the room. Both women instinctively lifted their arms to shield their faces from the sunlight, but only one burst into flame.

The Contessa screamed as her skin and hair caught fire, the flames quickly spreading to her gown and bedclothes. Sonja backed away, both repulsed and fascinated as the ancient