lot."
Sixth stroke. Seventh stroke.
Halfway up the block uniformed policemen appeared astride horses, riding four abreast, bullhorns held in their hands. Behind them Palmer glimpsed the huge street-sweeping machines, brushes spinning in anticipation of flushing the gutters clean of accumulated filth, human and otherwise. Eighth stroke. Ninth stroke.
Chaz shimmered with every toll of the bell, like a reflection in a bestirred pool.
Palmer tried to push past the throng of revelers, desperate to win one last answer from the smiling ghost.
"Mardi Gras is over! Everyone go home!" bellowed the police as they moved forward, forcing the people milling in the street either onto the sidewalks or into the bars. "Mardi Gras is over! Everyone go home!"
The sanitation trucks blasted their horns to punctuate the mounted officers'
commandment.
Tenth stroke. Eleventh stroke.
A huge, heavy hand closed on Palmer's shoulder, pinning him so he could not move.
He looked up and stared into the brutish features of the man he'd seen skulking in Pangloss's shrubbery. "Renfield say come now." "Mardi Gras is over!"
Twelfth stroke. Midnight arrived, ushering in Lent.
Chaz wavered like a hologram projected onto smoke. Palmer watched as one of New Orleans' finest rode through the dead man. He expected the horse, at least, to react to the ghost, but all it did was flare its nostrils, toss its mane and leave a pile of dung in its wake.
"Renfield say you come now!"
The gorilla tightened his grip on Palmer, causing him to cry out in pain.
This made the gorilla smile, something Palmer definitely wished he hadn't seen.
Palmer had a funny feeling he was soon going to find out exactly who "they" were.
4
Sonja Blue watched as the police and sanitation workers brought Carnival to an end. She knew that the hard-core partying would continue well until dawn, but from now on it would have to be indoors, not on the streets. The harlequin's mask had been exchanged for the sackcloth of the penitent. She lifted her gaze from the streets, watching the spirits of the dead spiral upward like bats leaving a cave.
Neither variety of tourist would be staying to take communion.
She frowned and pulled the envelope from her pocket, turning it over and over as if by handling it she could divine its contents. Pangloss. Had it been a decade since they last met? Like most Pretenders, her sense of time was distorted. It was becoming more and more difficult for her to distinguish months from years.
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) She ran her fingers over the wax seal, her mood darkening as she recalled Pangloss's treachery below the streets of Rome.
The seal cracked easily, falling in three separate pieces at her feet. The letter was on expensive stationery that felt like silk and smelled of cologne. The penmanship was exquisitely baroque. No doubt the good doctor favored an old-fashioned quill pen.
My Dear,
Please forgive the method in which this letter was delivered. 1 have attempted to
contact you on numerous occasions, through various menials, but you are a difficult
woman to communicate with. I do not hold such rash disposal of my minions against
you. In many ways, I find your gift for carnage reassuring. It has been far too long
since we last spoke, and I fear that the conditions of our previous meeting may have
influenced you to view me in an unfavorable light. I have followed your antics with
great interest since we last met. I must admit I found your handling of the Catherine
Wheele situation gauche but effective. You have a natural talent for atrocity, my dear.
It needs refining, but I believe you have it in you to produce a tableau on the level of
Baron Luxor's Jonestown, Lord Mauride's Stockton Elementary School Massacre, or
even Marchessa Nuit's classic McDonald's McMassacre! But I am not writing simply
to compliment your style. There is much I must tell you, my dear, and it
Sixth stroke. Seventh stroke.
Halfway up the block uniformed policemen appeared astride horses, riding four abreast, bullhorns held in their hands. Behind them Palmer glimpsed the huge street-sweeping machines, brushes spinning in anticipation of flushing the gutters clean of accumulated filth, human and otherwise. Eighth stroke. Ninth stroke.
Chaz shimmered with every toll of the bell, like a reflection in a bestirred pool.
Palmer tried to push past the throng of revelers, desperate to win one last answer from the smiling ghost.
"Mardi Gras is over! Everyone go home!" bellowed the police as they moved forward, forcing the people milling in the street either onto the sidewalks or into the bars. "Mardi Gras is over! Everyone go home!"
The sanitation trucks blasted their horns to punctuate the mounted officers'
commandment.
Tenth stroke. Eleventh stroke.
A huge, heavy hand closed on Palmer's shoulder, pinning him so he could not move.
He looked up and stared into the brutish features of the man he'd seen skulking in Pangloss's shrubbery. "Renfield say come now." "Mardi Gras is over!"
Twelfth stroke. Midnight arrived, ushering in Lent.
Chaz wavered like a hologram projected onto smoke. Palmer watched as one of New Orleans' finest rode through the dead man. He expected the horse, at least, to react to the ghost, but all it did was flare its nostrils, toss its mane and leave a pile of dung in its wake.
"Renfield say you come now!"
The gorilla tightened his grip on Palmer, causing him to cry out in pain.
This made the gorilla smile, something Palmer definitely wished he hadn't seen.
Palmer had a funny feeling he was soon going to find out exactly who "they" were.
4
Sonja Blue watched as the police and sanitation workers brought Carnival to an end. She knew that the hard-core partying would continue well until dawn, but from now on it would have to be indoors, not on the streets. The harlequin's mask had been exchanged for the sackcloth of the penitent. She lifted her gaze from the streets, watching the spirits of the dead spiral upward like bats leaving a cave.
Neither variety of tourist would be staying to take communion.
She frowned and pulled the envelope from her pocket, turning it over and over as if by handling it she could divine its contents. Pangloss. Had it been a decade since they last met? Like most Pretenders, her sense of time was distorted. It was becoming more and more difficult for her to distinguish months from years.
Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) She ran her fingers over the wax seal, her mood darkening as she recalled Pangloss's treachery below the streets of Rome.
The seal cracked easily, falling in three separate pieces at her feet. The letter was on expensive stationery that felt like silk and smelled of cologne. The penmanship was exquisitely baroque. No doubt the good doctor favored an old-fashioned quill pen.
My Dear,
Please forgive the method in which this letter was delivered. 1 have attempted to
contact you on numerous occasions, through various menials, but you are a difficult
woman to communicate with. I do not hold such rash disposal of my minions against
you. In many ways, I find your gift for carnage reassuring. It has been far too long
since we last spoke, and I fear that the conditions of our previous meeting may have
influenced you to view me in an unfavorable light. I have followed your antics with
great interest since we last met. I must admit I found your handling of the Catherine
Wheele situation gauche but effective. You have a natural talent for atrocity, my dear.
It needs refining, but I believe you have it in you to produce a tableau on the level of
Baron Luxor's Jonestown, Lord Mauride's Stockton Elementary School Massacre, or
even Marchessa Nuit's classic McDonald's McMassacre! But I am not writing simply
to compliment your style. There is much I must tell you, my dear, and it
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