Chapter Ten
She found him drinking espresso in a dark, smoky coffee bar across the street from the hotel. The sun was going down and she had her shades on. He glanced up from his drink, shrugged, and motioned for her to take a seat.
He expected her to say she was sorry or try to explain herself in some way. He'd played the scene before, but from the other side. He'd expected hesitant, incoherent emotional histrionics. Instead, she touched the top of his right hand with the index finger of her left hand.
Palmer gasped as her mind flowed into his. It was as unlike the brutal intrusion of the night before as a lover's caress from a molester's groping. There were no words, only sensations. The intimacy was both thrilling and intimidating. The temptation to let go, to lose himself in telepathic rapport, was strong. But so was his sense of self.
She recognized his fear of being subsumed and respected it, breaking the contact voluntarily.
He couldn't tell if she was looking at him or not, so he coughed into his fist and sipped his espresso before speaking. "No harm done."
She nodded and motioned to the paperback book at his elbow. "What's that?"
Palmer flipped the book over so that the cover was visible. "I found out what - and where - Ghost Trap is."
Sonja picked up the book and read the title aloud.
"The Architect's Guide to Haunted Houses?"
"I found it at a B. Dalton's, of all places. Check out page 113."
Sonja opened the book and began to read:
Northern California has long demonstrated an allure for the eccentric, the artistic and the wealthy. One of the strangest transplanted Californians to combine these elements was the architect-millionaire Creighton Seward (1870- 1939). Seward, heir to an industrialist fortune, has been lost among the shadows cast by Frank Lloyd Wright. That all but a handful of his buildings have been destroyed in the sixty years since his death has helped condemn him to obscurity. Yet none can deny that Seward's genius was very real. As was the tragedy that consumed him.
After spending the better part of a decade designing competent but uninspired skyscrapers and homes for America's upper class in the Great Lakes area, in 1907 Seward took a sabbatical to Europe, taking his family with him. What truly happened on that tiny Mediterranean island will never be known. That Seward was found roaming its shores, delirious and naked except for his wife's blood, is certain.
The official report was that a disgruntled servant had murdered the entire household, including the children, while they slept. The only reason Seward survived was that he'd been awakened by the killer hacking his wife apart and overpowered him, smashing the fiend's skull open with the very ax used to dispatch his hapless family.
However, rumor persisted that the ax-murderer was none other than Seward himself, although no one could provide motivation for such a heinous act on his part. That Seward spent three years in a private asylum following his ordeal did not help the gossip. In 1910, Seward resumed his career. Whatever he might have seen - or done - that night in 1907 changed him forever, as is evident in his work.
Previously a mediocre architect, Seward's new designs foreshadowed the work of Gaudi and Salvador Dali. Seward took only three commissions in the five years between his return to public life and his subsequent self-imposed seclusion, but each is a masterwork. Unfortunately, none of these structures remain standing, largely due to the so-called "Seward Curse. "
While each of these buildings (two private homes in Minnesota and the old Zorn Publications skyscraper in New York) were incredible works of art and widely praised by the intelligentsia of the time, they proved to be uninhabitable. On the few occasions Seward would speak of his later work, he insisted that he had discovered, through the use of non-Euclidian geometry and quantum physics, a way of creating lines and angles that would pierce the space-time continuum. Whether this was so, or simply the ravings of a brilliant but sadly unhinged mind, can never be verified. However, it was soon discovered that those who intended to live or work within these edifices were often stricken with vertigo and a nameless dread that led them to flee the buildings. (It is believed that these incidents later provided the fantasy writer H.P. Lovecraft with the inspiration for his short story "The Dreams in the Witch-House.") In 1916, shortly before the ZornBuilding - with its magnificent chromium gargoyles and eye-twisting zeppelin mooring spire - was scheduled for demolition, Creighton Seward disappeared from the public eye and would not resurface until his apparent suicide in 1930.
It was later discovered that Seward had "disappeared" into the hills of Northern California's SonomaValley, where he set about creating a personal testament to guilt and madness: the infamous Ghost Trap Manor. Using a previously existing three-story mansion as its core, Seward had carpenters constantly working on a twisting maze of weirdly shaped and cunningly designed rooms and corridors that would, by the time of the architect's death, cover acres of land and tower over six stories high. The mansion was completed in I925 and the workmen departed, each paid handsomely to keep secret the location - and nature - of Creighton Seward's final masterpiece.
It is uncertain whether Seward spent the last five years of his life in complete isolation, or if he shared the house with servants. When his nephew and heir, Pierce Seward, had the rambling house searched for signs of his uncle in 1930. it took the searchers three days to locate the body.
The exact manner of Seward's demise is unknown, although he is believed to have starved to death. Many of those who originally searched the house later complained of experiencing attacks of vertigo and extreme nausea.
Notes found among Seward's personal effects hinted at the architect's intended use for his unconventional home. Seward apparently suffered from the delusion that the ghosts of his slain family were haunting him. Consumed by guilt and fear, he devised a house that would effectively "confuse" the pursuing spirits and keep them from finding him, thus explaining Ghost Trap's bewildering number of blind staircases, doorways that open onto brick walls and windows set into ceilings.
Apparently Seward himself lived in the original "normal" rooms that served as the nucleus for the sprawling mansion. Why the architect would wander into the maze of "ghost rooms " without provisions or a map is not certain. For lack of a better verdict, the coroner listed his death as a suicide.
For over fifty years Ghost Trap remained shuttered and sealed against the elements as part of the Seward estate. Then, in I982, it was sold to a San Francisco real-estate agent and land developer acting for an unnamed third party. Ghost Trap remains closed to the public, although whether anyone currently walks its halls is unknown.
On the page opposite the text was a partial schematic of the house's floor plan. Sonja stared at it for a moment before realizing what she was looking at.
"I'll be damned!"
"I don't doubt it. What's up?"
She pointed at the diagram. "Can't you see? Look at that!"
Palmer frowned at the jumble of lines and curves. "So? It looks like a kid went crazy with a Spirograph. Big deal."
"You're seeing it with human eyes. Look again. Look harder! "
Palmer shrugged and looked at the drawing again, this time focusing his attention on it. To his dismay the lines writhed, as if they had suddenly taken on three-dimensional life.
"Shit!"
"It's Pretender script! A form of - I don't know, call it a magic formula or glyph!"
"Are you saying this Seward guy was a werewolf or a vampire or something?"
"It's possible. Although I suspect he wasn't full-blooded, whatever he was. Probably wasn't even aware of his heritage. There are plenty of half-bloods and changelings out there, ignorant of their true nature and powers until something happens, later in life, to trigger it. They can be as dangerous as a purebred Pretender, given the right circumstances. Catherine Wheele, for example."
Palmer tried to keep his jaw from dropping. "I always wondered about her! Did you have anything to do with the fire?"
Sonja's manner stiffened. "That's old business."
Palmer let it drop.
"Like I was saying, Seward didn't design a trap for unwanted ghosts - he created the physical equivalent of a psychic jamming station!"
"Come again?"
"This entire house is a protective charm! No wonder Morgan is using it as his lair! It's probably the only place on earth he can relax without fear of being attacked, at least on a psychic level. No wonder the networks don't have any information on him. He's practically invisible!"
"Is this a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Hard to say. Obviously it's worked to Morgan's advantage. From what little information there is to go by, I'd say we're going to need a countercharm just to get inside the door."
"So how do we go about getting one of these countercharms? Open a box of breakfast cereal?"
"It won't be that easy, I'm afraid. Before we left New Orleans, I checked with Malfeis to see if there was a reliable alchemist in the San Francisco area."
"You mean they're not listed in the Triple-A Guide?"
"Funny, Palmer. Remind me to laugh. You don't have to go if you don't want to."
"Did I say I wouldn't? Where do we have to go this time?"
"Chinatown."
He knew they were in for trouble the moment Sonja ducked into the alleyway. Since he had no choice, he followed her into the narrow, foul-smelling back street. It was dark and they had long left the Caucasian tourists on
Grant Avenue
behind them. He realized his basic instincts had been correct when he heard the sound of boot leather on concrete.
There were three of them blocking the way. Palmer was pained by how young they were. The oldest of the group was barely nineteen. The Chinese youths wore their hair short and choppy, and Palmer sensed the aggression rolling off them in crackling waves.
The tallest of the trio, stainless steel shuriken decorating the front of his leather jacket, stepped forward. His eyes were fixed on Palmer. "This is Black Dragon territory. No dogs or round-eyes allowed."
Sonja's fingers brushed against Palmer's bunched fist, touching his mind with her own. Let me handle this.
She moved to intercept the gang leader, speaking in Cantonese. "We're looking for Li Lijing. We meant no disrespect."
The youth scowled. His challenge had been aimed at Palmer; he had not expected the woman to know the tongue of his ancestors. "Li Lijing? The apothecary?"
"Yeah, Loo, maybe the geezer needs a fix of powdered rhino horn so he can get it up!" A slender boy with bristling, raven black hair giggled.
"All we want is to speak with the kitsune. "
"Kitsune? You're talking Japanese trash, white girl!" sneered the boy. "What's the matter, can't you tell the difference between Chinese and Japanese?"
"Round-eyes can't tell the difference between shit and tuna fish!" The third Black Dragon laughed, and yanked a nunchaku from the waistband of his jeans. "Only way they learn the difference is if you beat it into them!"
Palmer couldn't tell what the trio said, but he didn't like the way they laughed or the way the one with acne let his nunchaku drop to the length of their chain.
"Loo! Hong! Kenny! Is this how you greet people looking for my shop? No wonder my business has been so poor!"
The youths jumped at the sound of the old man's voice, looking more like children surprised at a naughty deed than dangerous street toughs. An ancient Chinese gentleman stood at the top of the stair leading to a basement shop, leaning on an ornately carved cane.
"Go play hoodlum somewhere else! I will not have you harassing paying customers! Have I made myself clear?" The old man poked Loo in the ribs with the end of his cane. The boy looked embarrassed but did not protest the treatment.
"Yes, Uncle."
"Go now before I change my mind about paying you for the work you did for me!" The old man watched the leather-jacketed youths retreat and made a sour face. "Youth today! No respect! You must forgive Loo, my friends. He works for me, opening and sorting boxes of herbs from the old country. He is a good boy, but his brain is too often filled with foolish Western nonsense - no offense."
"None taken. I assume I am speaking to the honorable Li Lijing?"
The old man nodded, smiling cryptically. "And you are the one they call the Blue Woman. Malfeis told me I might expect a visit from you. That is why I was eavesdropping. Loo is a silly boy, but I have a fondness for him. It would pain me to dig a grave for one so young. Ah! It is rude of me to keep you chattering on my doorstep! Please, come inside and make yourself comfortable."
The apothecary's basement workshop was dark and close, the ceiling a foot over their heads. Various herbs hung from the rafters, filling the space with an exotic aroma. Palmer noticed a stuffed Chinese crocodile suspended from the rafters and a bewildering collection of subhuman skulls in an open cupboard - one of which boasted a cyclopean eye socket and a large horn growing from its forehead.
"Permit me to light another lamp," Li Lijing said as he busied himself with an antique hurricane lamp. "You and I certainly do not need it, my dear, but your companion might benefit from some additional illumination." Li Lijing turned to face Palmer, a sharp smile on his long, black velvet snout. "Is that not so?"
Without meaning to, Palmer let out a startled yelp and stepped back from the humanoid fox.
"You're a werewolf!"
Li Lijing looked pained and shook his pointed ears in disgust. "Hardly! I am kitsune, not vargr! Would you compare a panda to a grizzly bear? An Arabian stallion to a Clydesdale? A samurai to a priest?"
"Forgive my companion, Li Lijing. He is new to the Real World and has yet to meet a kitsune, much less a vargr. He meant no offense."
The kitsune snorted as he hobbled through the shop, the staff he carried helping to balance him on his crooked legs. "I have come to expect such ignorance from humans. Still, it is a sore spot with me. But I cannot find it in myself to dislike their species. I have lived long among humankind. Why, I even took a couple as wives!" He made a barking sound that Palmer recognized as laughter. "I will tell you a secret! Loo is not my nephew, but actually my great-grandson! Not that he knows this. As far as he is concerned, I am merely a good friend of the family who arranged for his father to escape the mainland. He calls me uncle out of respect, but is ignorant of his blood. I favor the boy, as he reminds me of his grandfather-my son-who was lost to me during the invasion of Manchuria. Ah, but I must be old and foolish to succumb to such sentimentality, yes?"
Li Lijing sat down behind a low teak desk carved with scenes of kei-lun, the Chinese unicorn, frolicking in the perfumed gardens of K'un Lun, the City of Heaven. "Now, what is it I can do for you, my dear?"
"I need a countercharm."
"I see." The kitsune pushed aside a scroll of rice paper and his collection of bamboo calligraphy brushes and picked up an abacus. "What kind of spell are you interested in negating? Protection? Ensorcellment? Bedevilment? Containment? There is a difference in the prices, you know - "
Sonja motioned for Palmer to hand the alchemist the book. "You tell me. I'm sure I'm nowhere as adept at reading conjuration patterns as you are, Honorable One."
Li Lijing accepted the compliment by fluttering his pointed ears. "You do me great honor. Now, as to this particular charm..." He pondered the drawing, scratching his muzzle in contemplation. "This is a protective ward of immense potency. You were wise to consult me. Anyone - Pretender or human - trying to violate these lines of power would be risking their sanity, if not their very lives!"
"Can you do it?"
"Of course I can do it! Did I say otherwise? It's just that the preparation of the proper countercharm will not be without some expense... or danger."
"I'm willing to pay what it's worth."
The kitsune smiled as if he'd just been handed the key to the henhouse. "Malfeis didn't lie, for once. You are a class act!" The alchemist barked another laugh and returned to his estimating, the abacus beads rattling like hailstones on a tin roof. "Let's see, I can have the appropriate countercharm ready within the week -
"Twenty-four hours."
Li Lijing looked down his long black nose at her. "That's extra, you know."
Sonja shrugged.
The abacus beads were flying now. "Very well. I'll have Loo deliver it to your hotel once it's ready. However, I would advise that you, not your companion, be the one to use it. Frankly, a charm of this magnitude has no business being handled by humans. No offense. Now, as to the settling of my bill - "
Sonja produced a small envelope from inside her jacket and tossed it onto the desk. Li Lijing lost no time in opening the packet and dumping its contents onto the blotter. Palmer stared at the handful of human teeth.
"I trust this will prove satisfactory. They once belonged to Hitler. I have papers that will verify it."
"That won't be necessary! Their power speaks for you. Yes, this is most satisfactory. It is always a pleasure doing business with a client of such refined sensibilities as yourself, Mistress Blue!"