Mirror Image (33 page)

On the back of one of the tickets he began to list his imperatives.

Clear my name.
Clearing his name meant going to Detective Haaren and talking to her, but she wasn't likely to believe him without evidence. And what evidence had he got? He couldn't exactly bring the mirror to her, could he?

And why not?

Why not bring
her
to the mirror, let her see for herself. His hand was trembling so much now that he could hardly write. It was so obvious. So simple.

Return to the mirror.

He needed to feed it some blood again. It would be hungry soon; he could almost feel its craving. He needed to get back to the mirror to have another “look” at what his dear wife was up to. And he wanted—needed—to see the image.

Getting back into the house might prove to be difficult; the police would undoubtedly be watching it. But he didn't need to go back to the house. He could go directly to the guesthouse. Surely they wouldn't be watching the guesthouse? And with Talbott dead would they even be watching the house?

Blood.

He was going to need some blood. He rolled up his sleeve and looked at his left arm. The flesh was still darkly bruised and tender, and he didn't fancy trying the same trick with the other arm. Maybe that was another reason he was feeling dizzy.

What about animal blood?

That didn't
feel
right. Surely it would be wrong to feed the glass with the blood of one of the lower creatures? Was it possible to buy blood, he suddenly wondered, staring blankly at the gaudy drapes. Hadn't he read that you could buy anything on the internet? But he didn't have a computer. Maybe he'd have to kidnap somebody? Or maybe he could buy some from a street person. Were there hemoglobin pushers and plasma junkies?

He began to giggle at the idea.

And what was the going rate for a pint of blood? Was there a set rate dependent on its purity and age, and did the price go up or down according to its age? Younger blood would be pricier.

If one of the street girls cost sixty dollars for an hour and there was eight pints of blood in the human body, did that not work out to seven dollars and fifty cents per pint?

He started giggling again. He loved the very thought of going up to a girl and saying, “Excuse me, could I buy a pint of your blood?” The smile faded from his lips. What was the first thing she was going to do … run to the nearest cop and say she'd been approached by some freak. The newspapers would have a field day with that,
Vampire on the Streets of Los Angeles.

Nonononono
. This was going to be done subtly. He wondered if it was possible to work out some way to get blood from a body without the person knowing. That might be an idea: there had to be some way. How did hospitals take blood? He knew how they took blood, the donors were awake, but they could just as easily be asleep. So, he was going to have to put his donors to sleep. Drink? Drugs?

Celia had sleeping pills back in the house: shit, she had a whole pharmacy in the bathroom!

OK, so he'd get these sleeping pills, administer them to his donor, in a drink presumably, and then when she fell asleep he'd take a pint of blood. He'd be gone by the time she woke up, and if he did it properly she'd never even know what he'd done.

He glared at his expression in the mirror opposite. Of course she'd know what he'd done. She'd have a fucking big hole in her arm! The face in the mirror was fierce, twisted, the warped glass giving him a depraved expression. And maybe the sleeping tablets wouldn't have any effect, maybe the pain would bring them awake. And what then?

Why was he giving himself all this grief; why the fuck didn't he just kill one of the sluts? Who was going to miss them? Wasn't as if they were important. Dirty, diseased whores. Spreading their filth, sapping the vitality of honest men like himself. Why not make them serve a higher cause? The bitches should be honored to feed the image.

Jonathan Frazer began to shudder. He pressed both hands to his head, feeling the pressure, the pounding deep in his skull, sure it was going to burst. Not enough sleep, not enough food. He was going crazy, thinking like a crazy man.

 … A knife rising and falling, rising and falling, silver when it fell, red with gore when it rose …

He barely made it to the sink before he retched up a thin bile. He stayed, crouched over the sink, feeling his stomach churn as sickening images and vile thoughts crowded at his mind, pushing their way in, insinuating themselves into his consciousness.

He was tired and hungry, emotionally exhausted. Staggering back to the bed, he flopped on it. He'd sleep. He'd feel better when he awoke.

*   *   *

T
HE NIGHTMARES WERE
terrifying and erotic, dark fantasies of blood and pain. He knew he was sleeping, was aware that he was dreaming, and was conscious of his heart beating, beating, beating.

Feed me.

Free me.

*   *   *

I
T WAS LATE
in the night when he awoke again. There was no longer traffic on the street outside, or in the corridor outside his door. He turned over on the soft, sagging bed, and found himself staring into the pale oval of the dressing-table mirror. As he watched a pale flickering oval appeared, not quite a face, twisted, misshapen, ugly. It cleared once—for a single heartbeat—and the mouth worked.

Feed me.

Free me.

 

73

D
OCTOR JOHN
Dee moved through the filthy streets, watching the people part before him, acknowledging him on some deep subconscious level as their superior. He could feel the power flowing out of him now, could almost see it. He lifted his left hand and peeled off the leather glove. Yes, his pale flesh was surrounded by a pale bronze aura, shot through with particles of red. He saw one of the women standing in an alley, her ankles exposed, staring openly at him. He glared at her, his thick eyebrows drawing into a straight line across his forehead, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a sneer and she quickly looked away. How easily these animals were controlled.

They were cattle, to be led, to be used.

What visions he had seen in the mirror, what sights. Mysteries beyond comprehension, carriages without horses, birds of metal, boats without sails, glass and crystal buildings standing impossibly tall.

But he was astute; he recognized that what he was seeing was some future tomorrow. Even now, in the Golden Age of Elizabeth, he could see the precursors of those fabulous articles all around him. If he were clever, he would be able to invest in the correct properties, the proper stocks and shares. And that income would allow him to continue his experiments. He had all the time in the world. By feeding the glass he was becoming immortal, he knew that. Already he felt stronger, sharper. He had seen his aura turned from the color of mud to bronze, when it turned gold he would be undying.

And then, of course, there was the image.

Once he had freed her he would have everything he wanted, everything he needed.

One more should do it … well, one or two.

 

74

F
RAZER NEEDED
blood again.

His mistress hungered.

It was late now, after midnight certainly, but the streets of Los Angeles were unusually busy, and there were no
decent
people on the streets at this time. He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking; lately time had ceased to have any real meaning for him, and he knew that by feeding the glass he was becoming immortal. Did the ever-living appreciate the passage of time? Mankind was intimately aware of time because each passing day brought them closer to death. But if one did not die, then time lost its sting. He stopped suddenly, pleased with the proposition.

His mistress hungered.

He was aware of her hunger as an almost physical ache, and he knew that if he didn't appease it soon, then that hunger would grow into an all-consuming ravening need.

It had been raining all day and the streets were shining and slick, the air cold and crisp. Many of the professional hookers had gone for the night, knowing the weather would keep their customers inside. Those few who remained were likely the ones desperate to make a few more dollars to support their drug habit. They had to be riddled with disease, their blood thin and poisoned.

He turned into a side street just as the woman came out of the squalid club. She was younger than most, mid-twenties he would guess, and pretty in a vulgar sort of way. And drunk.

“How much?” he asked directly, taking her arm, maneuvering her down the street into the shadows. He'd do her the first opportunity he got, some dark alley.

“Hey dude, not so rough, gimme a moment will you?”

He could smell the liquor on her breath, mingled with an underlying stink of unwashed flesh and the sourer scents of sex. “How much?” he repeated.

“Whatcha want, a hand job, blow job, or the works?” The woman took a deep breath, unsteadily placing her hands on her hips. “You look like you could do with the works, and that'll be sixty bucks for you.”

He laughed. “Sixty bucks?”

“Make it seventy hon, and you can stay the night. My place is just around the corner.”

It would be good to work indoors, out of this teeming rain which might wash some of the precious blood away. “Seventy bucks it is then,” he agreed, and then asked, “is there a mirror in your room?”

She looked up at him blearily, her eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot with the alcohol. “Why—you wanna watch us do it? Sure there's a mirror there.”

“Excellent.” He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Fresh blood spilt directly onto the glass, what images would he see then, what visions?

 

75

I
T REMEMBERED
that time.

It had been a time of strength and power. It had been strong then, so strong, feeding on the emotions of the men and the blood of the women. Curious that it should have remembered that now when it had so many memories to call upon.

They were crowding closer now, all those bloody memories, the times of strength and power, the times of blood and killing.

The memories were flowing out, into the servant.

Teaching him.

Showing him what he needed to do.

 

76

M
ANNY FRAZER
stood naked before the mirror, combing her hair, a smile fixed on her face, her gaze vacant. She looked into the glass, idly wondering how long it had been since she'd last had hair to comb. Her tight haircut should have lasted through the holidays and into spring. But it had sprouted with extraordinary rapidity, until she now had what resembled a straightforward short haircut that not even her father could object to. Another couple of weeks at this rate and it would be flowing down her back. The young woman ran both hands through the hair, pulling it back off her face, noticing the way her cheekbones seemed more prominent, her eyes slightly sunken, her lips thicker.

The first thing she had done when she'd come home from the police station was to have a shower, a long hot shower, washing away the grime that clung to her body like a second skin. They'd treated her like shit, she decided, like a criminal, and she'd get her father's lawyer to bring a case against them, wrongful arrest, something like that.

If she knew where her father was.

That woman detective had been very curious about his whereabouts—she'd practically accused him of killing Talbott and being involved in the deaths of the other policemen.

Where was he? Where was he likely to go? Had he a special club he liked to go to? A friend? A mistress? Where was her mother? What was his relationship with her mother? What was her relationship like with her father? Tell us again what happened? Tell us again … and again … and again …

After a while she just refused to answer any more questions until her lawyer was present. She wasn't being charged with anything just yet, the woman told her, she was simply helping them with their enquiries.

Finally they just let her go.

Now the police presence outside the house was much more visible. There was an officer stationed on the gate and the unmarked car out front had been replaced by an official black and white.

Margaret Haaren's last words as Manny climbed into the police car had been, “If your father contacts you, let us know immediately. We are very worried about the state of his mental health.”

What shit! What utter shit. They didn't give a toss about the state of her father's health. They were going to try and pin something on him. The woman had more or less said so.

Manny pulled on a heavy bathrobe and wrapped a towel around her still damp hair. She walked around the house, looking into each room, checking the windows, locking the doors when she had finished. She felt tired, a little freaked out, too, like she'd just come down off a trip, but then again, it was the middle of the afternoon and she had been up all night … and been attacked, too. Raped. That's what the police had written down on their reports. But somehow it hadn't felt like rape. Even when Talbott was on top of her, she'd always known that she was in charge. He wasn't using her; she was using him.

Or something was using her.

Everything was a little jittery, colors seemed sharper, brighter, edges were more defined, and she had the impression that objects were moving at the corner of her vision. She needed a good night's rest and some food, too, she decided, coming into the kitchen.

She made herself a tomato sandwich and a cup of herbal tea and then sat crossed legged in the living room on the plush cream sofa. Staring absently at the large flat screen TV, she aimlessly flicked through the hundreds of channels. She stopped at her favorite news station just as the female newscaster announced a “breaking news” story about three local prostitutes who had been brutally murdered. Police were reluctant to use the word serial killer, but the press had no such hesitation. There were wild rumors that all the women had been drained of blood and it was only a matter of time before someone would call the suspect the vampire killer. She turned the TV off, not wanting to hear anything else about sex and death. Finishing her sandwich, she wandered around the garden, sipping at the almost cold tea, trying to clear her head and relax, so that she could sleep.