chapter 7
Every time I come back to New Orleans I marvel over how everything is different, yet nothing has changed. This mercurial constancy makes the Big Easy a genuinely schizophrenic city, which may explain why so many Pretenders seem to gravitate here.
Over the years the French Quarter has gone from inner-city neighborhood to grungy tenderloin to high- dollar tourist Mecca, all the while remaining the hub of the city. Over the years the seedy strip clubs and live sex shows that once catered to the dock workers have slowly been replaced by upscale eateries, souvenir shops and antique stores aimed at the tourists that flock to the Quarter's narrow cobbled streets in search of a good time.
However, despite the Chamber of Commerce's best efforts, a few of the old dives still survive on the streets farthest removed from the hurly-burly of Jackson Square. Our destination tonight is one of these remaining dens of iniquity.
Levon drops us off at the foot of Canal, near the glittering pavilions of the riverboat casinos permanently anchored at the old docks. I stand on the curb and watch the zuvembie, fifty years dead, start to pilot his way back to Mojo House. Within seconds the taillights of the Caddy are swallowed by the evening traffic.
"So - who's this Malfeis V?V? has such a low opinion of?" Estes asks, glancing uncomfortably at the inebriated crowds thronging the streets.
"He's an information broker."
"You mean he's a snitch."
"If you want to keep wearing your tongue on the inside of your head, you won't call him that within earshot. Mal's been around a long time, and he knows a lot of people, living and otherwise. If anyone can recognize your bogeyman, with as little as we have to go on, it's him."
I focus my attention on the steady stream of faces wandering the haunts of the Vieux Carre. The majority are wide-eyed tourists, come to gape at the famed wrought-iron balconies and ancient burlesque queens of Bourbon Street, mixed with the dips, hustlers, pushers and con men drawn by the wealth and carelessness of the out-of-towners. However, they are not the only predators trawling the streets of the City That Care Forgot.
I spot an incubus lounging in the doorway of a bar catering to gay men. New Orleans has always been a magnet for carnal demons of all sexes and preferences. This one fixes me with a murder - green eye and rumbles a basso profundo growl that only Pretenders and bull gators can hear. His prehensile penis stirs in the pouch of his leather pants, rising to the perceived challenge like a fakir's cobra. I carefully maneuver Estes and myself out of striking distance; those bastards can squirt venom up to twenty feet.
A vargr leaning on a wrought-iron balcony railing watches our passing with open hostility. My gaze locks with the werewolf's, causing the hair on his scalp to rise as he bares rottweiler-sized fangs in my direction.
The rank odor of dog piss fills the air.
Estes walks alongside me, mercifully oblivious to the horrors surrounding us. I feel a sharp pang of envy.
There's no price I wouldn't gladly pay to be so blissfully ignorant of the hell that I live in.
As we near our destination, I begin to feel anxious. Walking into The Monastery is always dangerous, but this time I'm dragging a human along for the ride. As we turn the last corner before reaching the bar, my train of thought is not only derailed, but sent flying off the trestle into a hundred feet of icy water.
"Sonja - Sonja, are you listening to me?"
He felt like an idiot for having asked, because it was obvious she was off in that world of hers again, staring intently at something only she could see. The way she broke off in the middle of a sentence to stare at passersby, or even nothing at all, reminded him a little bit too much of some of the inmates back at the Institute.
He followed her stare and was surprised to discover that what had snared her attention this time was visible to the human eye, although most of those wandering the French Quarter in search of good times were doing their best to pretend it wasn't there.
The homeless man lay on his side in a nest of old newspapers, his back against a crumbling brick wall. He was dressed in mismatched running shoes with no laces, grimy brown twill pants, and a large overcoat that was far too warm for the sub-tropic climes of southern Louisiana. His features were obscured by a mass of dark, greasy ropes that might charitably be referred to as hair, and an equally matted beard, making it impossible to guess his age. The street person had strategically placed himself so that passers-by had to take a step around him in order to keep from treading on his outstretched arm. His callused hand held a paper coffee cup, which every so often he would twitch, causing the collection of loose change inside to rattle.
Sensing he was being watched, the homeless man reared up from his bed of old news, scanning the surrounding area like a radar dish. His gaze met Sonja's and something passed back and forth between the two, although neither spoke. After a long moment Sonja visibly shivered and, freed from her temporary catatonia, resumed her hurried stride. It was all Estes could do to keep up with her.
"Do you know him?"
"What?" she replied, sounding distracted.
"That bum. Do you know him?"
"It's not a bum. And, yes, I know it."
Estes wanted to ask more questions, but before he could, Sonja ducked through the door of a nearby bar.
Estes glanced up at the sign hanging over the threshold, which read, in faux-Old English script, The Monastery.
The only light inside the bar came from the votive candles placed at the converted pews that served as booths. Decaying plaster saints peeked out from various nooks and crannies like spying gnomes. Behind the bar was an antique walnut hutch, atop which was perched a disfigured Madonna and Child with painted-on eyes. The ancient jukebox next to the confessional - cum - phone booth played Led Zeppelin's Kashmir through fuzzy speakers. The hulking bartender turned slightly to follow their passage, his eyes gleaming with predacious curiosity.
Although the bar appeared empty, Estes could not shake the feeling that the heavy shadows that filled its corners were endowed with reptilian life. And that it was watching them.
Malfeis occupies his usual spot in the back booth, dressed in the skin of a middle-management type from Iowa who once yearned for a promotion and a newer, prettier wife. He grins as I approach, throwing gang sign in welcome. "Sonja! Long time no see, girlchick."
"Hello, Mal. I never figured you for the Casper Q. Milquetoast type."
Malfeis studies the sleeves of the nondescript gray suit over the top of his wire-rim spectacles. He wrinkles his nose, causing the glasses to rise slightly. "This one is a tad underwhelming, isn't he? I should change into something a bit more dynamic, given the occasion."
His eyes roll back like a toad swallowing a bug, revealing green-tinged whites. His skin ripples like a horse ridding itself of flies, and a tall, dark-haired man in his thirties, dressed in a double-breasted suit fifty-five years out of date, replaces the mousy middle-management office drone.
With its thick eyebrows and strong chin, Malfeis' new face could easily be that of a matinee idol, if not for the cruel set of the mouth and the coldness in the eyes.
"Mengele was one of yours?" I can't help the hint of admiration in my voice.
"Why so surprised, liebchen?" Mal smirked. "You didn't think that the good doctor escaped Nuremberg and evaded Mossad for all those years thanks to sheer luck and strudel, did you?" He gestures to the empty pew opposite him with a surgeon's nimble hands. "Please, be seated, my dear."
I slide in opposite the demon, doing my best not to actually come in contact with him under the tabletop.
"I see you have company," he smiles, nodding at Estes. "Breaking in a new renfield, are you?"
"Tone down the smarm. He's not a renfield," I reply tartly.
"That's what you always say," Malfeis chuckles knowingly. "Far be it from me to argue. Now, what is it you need, girlchick?"
"I'm trying to track down a vampire."
"Aren't you always?"
"Are you interested in doing business or not?"
"My, aren't we touchy...." Malfeis chuckles, shedding the war criminal's skin in favor of that of a woman in a fringed flapper sheath and bobbed hair who wanted to marry a millionaire. "Would you feel more comfortable speaking woman-to-woman?"
"Cut the crap, Mal! Can you help me or not?"
"Depends," she grunts, sticking an ivory cigarette holder between painted lips. "I'll need some specifics."
"African-American. Male. Probably a Noble. He was active in the early 1970s under the name Blackheart, but I doubt it's his permanent tag. Trafficked in hard drugs and was involved in the music industry. Ring any bells?"
Malfeis morphs into an elderly man in Bermuda shorts and a Madras shirt who dreamed of retiring to Florida in style. He frowns for a couple of minutes, tapping an aimless tune on his dentures. "Sounds familiar."
"He may use a sign: a heart with a dagger through it."
Mal's brushy gray eyebrows arch and the rheumy blue eyes twinkle in recognition. "Ah! Him! You were correct in guessing he's a Noble. And while he's black, he's more African than American. Rumor has it he's strega."
I can't keep from groaning. "Are you sure?"
"More than most rumors I spread."
"What else do you have on him?"
"You know the rules. That's all you get for free, girly-girl," the demon grins, popping his dentures like castanets. "What have you got for me in exchange?"
He's got me. I entered his turf and asked him a question. That means I have to provide him with something of commensurate worth - at least as demons judge such things. And in Mal's case, he has a jones for artifacts impregnated with human evil.
"Estes!"
Estes steps forward a little too quickly for Malfeis' liking. The demon's face spins like a roulette wheel before settling on the visage of a Russian gangster. Estes gasps in astonishment, as Mal hasn't bothered to veil the transformation from mortal eyes.
I hold out my hand, trying to ignore the thunderstruck look on my companion's face. "Give me the witch- breaker."
Estes sounds like a man who has woken from a doze only to find himself strolling down the middle of a busy highway. "The what?"
"The crucifix," I explain.
Estes reaches inside his duster and retrieves the inquisitorial torture device. Mal's eyes light up and I can see the bastard's trying his best not to drool. "My - my! That's a fine piece you're packing, pilgrim."
The demon reaches for the witch-breaker, but I jerk it away. "Now - about that information...."
Malfeis takes a deep breath and drums his fingers against the tabletop. His eyes don't leave the witch- breaker. After a long moment he sighs and nods his head.
"Very well. The one you are looking for is Lord Noir. Although he's Old World, he's been operating out of North America for the last century. He's generated several aliases and he currently owns several `gentlemen's clubs' across the country. He's headquartered in Atlanta."
"Thanks, Mal."
"As they say: Anything for a friend."
The demon grins, his features redefining themselves into those of young man with shoulder-length blond hair pulled into a ponytail and three rings in his right ear and one in his left nostril. It is a face I know all too well from my dreams. And my nightmares.
I bring the witch-breaker down on the demon's right arm, snapping it like a piece of balsa wood. Malfeis' stolen face opens its mouth in a wail of inhuman pain. Before he or his flunky behind the bar has a chance to react, I grab the demon by the throat, digging my fingers deep into borrowed flesh.
"Let him go!"
"Now, now, Sonja - mustn't play rough!" Malfeis sputters as he tries, unsuccessfully, to pry my hand away.
"I said let him go, you bastard!" I bellow, shaking him for emphasis.
"He's mine by right!" Malfeis squeaks out through purpling lips. "He came to me for a favor and asked its price. The bargain was made!"
"He didn't know the rules!"
"Ignorance of the Infernal Laws is no excuse - "
I tighten my grip on Malfeis' larynx. I'm in no mood for his glib banter right now. The demon's face sheds its semblance of humanity, dissolving into a cross between the features of a mandrill baboon and a wild boar. A clawed hand swipes at my face, sending my sunglasses flying. I reflexively lift my arm to shield my eyes, letting go of Malfeis' throat. The demon loses no time putting distance between us.
"Have you lost your mind?" he growls, human speech somehow finding its n way out of his tusked snout.
"Coming in here, on my turf, and physically attacking me?"
"I've put up with double-crosses, even triple-crosses from you, Mal. But this will not stand!" I bare my fangs in ritual challenge. "Judd's not like the others in your collection! You and I both know he had no idea what he was getting himself into when he asked for your help. Either give him up or die by my hand.
Which will it be?"
"You are mad!" Malfeis turns and motions to the devil behind the bar. "Willie! Take 'em out!"
Suddenly Estes' back is pressed flat against my own, his guns drawn and pointed at the bartender, who is reaching for something under the register. "Keep your hands where I can see them!"
The bartender glances in Estes' direction with his third eye, trying to decide whether or not he's a threat, and then slowly returns its claws to the top of the bar.
"You're in the wrong, Sonja," Malfeis growls, his features melting into those of a middle-aged African- American man with thick black dreadlocks hanging about his head like furry snakes. "To know a thing's name gives one power over that thing. That is the Law. He gave me his name of his own free will. He is mine, to use as I see fit."
"Fuckin' protean! Goddamned face-dancer!"
"Now - now! There's no need for racial slurs!" Mal replies, sounding genuinely offended.
I pull my switchblade. Its silver edge gleams like a wet tooth in the dim light of The Monastery.
"Here, now, girlchick - let's not do something we'll both regret!" Malfeis says, an alarmed look in his eyes.
"Put away the knife...."
"Give him up."
Malfeis growls in angry defiance. A fang the size of a man's little finger pushes past his lips. "Kiss my rosy red baboon butt!"
I lunge at the demon, hissing a ritual challenge as I unsheathe my fangs. The knife blade cuts a silver arc through the air, centimeters from Malfeis' face. The demon leaps aside like a housecat dodging a strike from a snake.
Before I can move closer again, a creature resembling an anthropomorphic octopus detaches itself from the shadows lining the wall and grabs me from behind. Its bulbous, sac-like head hangs low between its shoulders like a partially deflated balloon and its eyes are the size and shape of clenched fists, reflecting the cold, submarine stare of a shark. It has several tentacles, each tipped with a razor-sharp spur, the undersides of which are lined with grasping suction-pads that cling to my flesh like lampreys.
The octopoid wraps a living noose around my throat, yanking me off the ground. I struggle to free myself, but my feet only make contact with empty air. Estes swings one of his guns away from the bartender towards my attacker, but the creature is far smarter than it looks; it dangles me in front of itself as a living shield while lashing out with its other tentacles.
Estes blinks in pain and a long, bright red line appears across his cheek. After a long moment, the line begins to weep blood. If Estes stays within reach, the octopoid's spurs will slice him to confetti. He has no choice but to make for the door and hope he gets a clear shot before the monster snaps my head off like a Barbie doll's.
Estes edges his way up the bar towards the doorway of The Monastery. Malfeis and his attendant demons follow him, the octopoid holding me aloft like a grotesque lantern. I kick at the air, clawing desperately at the tentacle wrapped about my neck like a thuggee's garrote. My face is dark with congested blood, my eyes starting from their sockets. Something like blood is seeping from my nostrils and ears, and foam flecks the corners of my mouth. It's not a pretty picture, and believe me, it feels a hell of a lot worse than it looks.
"Let her go!"
The demons exchange grins as they close in for the kill, amused by Estes' show of bravado.
"Again with the demands!" snorts Malfeis, who is wearing the exterior of a flabby white male dressed in a loud plaid polyester leisure suit with white buck loafers. "Give me that! Do this! Don't do that!" His smile grows larger, sharper, and meaner as his mouth stretches from ear to ear. "Who do you people think you are?"
Estes makes a desperate lunge towards the door, but his way is blocked by a hulking, foul-smelling figure standing just inside the wide flaps of scuffed, translucent plastic that keeps the bar's air conditioning from pouring out into the street. Estes instinctively recoils as the thing steps towards him, uncertain of which threat he should open fire on first.
The shark grin on Malfeis' borrowed face abruptly disappears and the bartender's third eye starts from its socket. The octopoid makes a sound like a backed up toilet disgorging a week's worth of sewage, then drops me on the floor.
Mat holds his hands up, grinning nervously. "Hey, man - we're cool! We don't want any trouble here, okay?"
Estes lowers his gun and stares at the bedraggled street person standing in The Monastery's doorway, baffled by the demons' reaction to a bum with newspapers stuffed in his shoes. Of course, being human, he cannot see things for what they truly are.
The seraph stares for a long moment at my bruised throat and the blood leaking from my nose and ears, then looks at the three demons. A spark ignites in the back of its eyes, filling them with a golden glow, as if someone carrying a torch was climbing up the stairs from a dark cellar. With great deliberation, it takes a single step towards the demons.
The seraph opens its mouth and a trilling noise, like that of a thousand crystal wind chimes, issues forth.
It's both beautiful and ominous, like the chanting of Kyoto monks. The octopoid makes a sound like broken plumbing and, tentacles waving in panic, disappears in a cloud of shadow.
"No! Fido - stop!" I croak, lurching to my feet. Bloody spittle flies from my lips as I force the words from my bruised larynx.
The seraph halts and turns to regard me. I feel its thoughts pass through my mind, like minnows darting through swiftly moving water.
"Please, Sonja - make it go away!" Malfeis begs, on the verge of tears.
"Why should I?" My voice sounds like someone had used a floor stripper on my throat. "I ought to let it sing you and your toadies straight back to Hell."
"No!" Malfeis wails in panic, wringing his talons. "Not that! I'll do anything you want - just make it leave!"
"Give it up, then."
"Deal." The demon looks around, a sour look on his face. "I'll need something to put it in."
"Here - I think I have something that'll do the trick." I reach inside my jacket and pull out the little blue bottle V?V? gave me before we left Mojo House.
"It'll do," Malfeis says with a resigned growl. He unplugs the neck of the perfume bottle, raises it to his lips, and spits out the name. He then quickly stoppers the bottle and hands it to me. "There you go," he sneers. "Are you happy now?"
"I'm fuckin' ecstatic." I hold the bottle between thumb and forefinger so I can squint at the tiny glimmer of light within.
"We square now?"
"Yeah," I answer grudgingly, returning the bottle to my breast pocket. "I guess so."
"Then get that fucking thing out of my bar!" Malfeis shrieks, stabbing a clawed finger at the seraph.
"C'mon, Fido - let's clear out of this shit hole." Fido glances at me, then back at Malfeis. "Yeah, I know," I sigh. "But a deal's a deal."
The seraph obediently steps back and falls in behind us. The golden glow in its eyes gutters out as it returns to being a rank-and-file vagrant who wanders the streets in search of spare change and Thunderbird. I reach into my jeans pocket and hand the seraph a crumpled dollar bill. It quickly stuffs the money into its overcoat; nodding its head to a rhythm only it can hear, then simply turns and walks away.
"Who was that?" Estes whispered, eyeing the seraph's retreating back.
"Something I used to know."
"A friend?"
"No. But not exactly an enemy, either. It's too complicated to go into right now."
"That's alright. I don't think I could handle any more information tonight...."
Estes trails off, staring at a clutch of approaching tourists as if by sheer willpower he can somehow see beyond their cargo pants and divine whether they harbor monsters within. I can't decide whether the look in his eyes is suspicion or madness. Perhaps there's no difference.
Part Three
Rage in the cage
And piss upon the stage
There's only one sure way
To bring the giant down
Defunct the strings
Of cemetery things
With one flat foot
On the devil's wings
Living Dead Girl,
- Rob Zombie