the lounge only five minutes, and already he suspected it was not good
hunting grounds. The atmosphere was all wrong. He wished he had not
ordered a drink.
No dance music was provided on Monday nights, but a pianist was at work
in one corner. He played neither gutless renditions of ‘305 and ’40s
songs nor the studiedly bland arrangements of easy-listening
rock-‘n’-roll that rotted the brains of regular lounge patrons. But he
spun out the equally noxious repetitive melodies of New Age numbers
composed for those who found elevator music too complex and
intellectually taxing.
Vassago preferred music with a hard beat, fast and driving, something
that put his teeth on edge. Since becoming a citizen of the borderland,
he could not take pleasure in most music, for its orderly structures
irritated him. He could tolerate only music that was atonal, harsh,
unmelodious.
He responded to jarring key changes, thunderously crashing chords, and
squealing guitar riffs that abraded the nerves. He enjoyed discord and
broken patterns of rhythm. He was excited by music that filled his mind
with images of blood and violence.
To Vassago, the scene beyond the big windows, because of its beauty, was
as displeasing as the lounge music. Sailboats and motor yachts crowded
one another at the private docks along the harbor. They were tied up,
sails furled, engines silent, wallowing only slightly because the harbor
was well protected and the storm was not particularly ferocious. Few of
the wealthy owners actually lived aboard, regardless of the size of the
craft or amenities, so lights glowed at only a few of the portholes.
Rain, here and there transmuted into quicksilver by the dock lights,
hammered the boats, beaded on their brightwork, drizzled like molten
metal down their masts and across their decks and out of their scuppers.
He had no tolerance for prettiness, for postcard scenes of harmonious
composition, because they seemed false, a lie about what the world was
really like. He was drawn, instead, to visual discord, jagged shapes,
malignant and festering forms.
With its plush chairs and low amber lighting, the lounge was too soft
for a hunter like him. It dulled his killing instincts.
He surveyed the patrons, hoping to spot an object of the quality
suitable for his collection. If he saw something truly superb that
excited his acquisitional fever, even the stultifying atmosphere would
not be able to sap his energy.
A few men sat at the bar, but they were of no interest to him. The
three men in his collection had been his second, fourth, and fifth
acquisitions, taken because they had been vulnerable and in lonely
circumstances that allowed him to overpower them and take them away
without being seen.
He had no aversion to killing men, but preferred women. Young women.
He liked to get them before they could breed more life.
The only really young people among the customers were four women in
their twenties who were seated by the windows, three tables away from
him. They were tipsy and a little giddy, hunched over as if sharing
gossip, talking intently, periodically bursting into gales of laughter.
One of them was lovely enough to engage Vassago’s hatred of beautiful
things. She had enormous chocolate-brown eyes, and an animal grace that
reminded him of a doe. He dubbed her “Bambi.” Her raven hair was cut
into short wings, exposing the lower halves of her ears.
They were exceptional ears, large but delicately formed. He thought he
might be able to do something interesting with them, and he continued to
watch her, trying to decide if she was up to his standards.
Bambi talked more than her friends, and she was the loudest of the
group. Her laugh was the loudest, as well, a jackass braying. She was
exceptionally attractive, but her incessant chatter and annoying
laughter spoiled the package. Clearly, she loved the sound of her own
voice.
She’d be vastly improved, he thought, if she were to be stricken deaf
and mute.
Inspiration seized him, and he sat up straighter in his chair. By
removing her ears, tucking them into her dead mouth, and sewing her lips
shut, he would be neatly symbolizing the fatal flaw in her beauty.