He laughed. “Demons aren’t known for being the trusting type.” He thought for a moment. “I think I’ll invite you to accompany me to my home. The public face of my operation is a small business called One Man’s Trash. Perhaps you saw it during your inquiries? It’s not far from here. I specialize in selling ‘reclaimed treasures’ imported from Earth. You’d be surprised what some Darkfolk are willing to pay for the junk I carry in my shop. My real business lies in the chambers underneath the shop, of course. I have a number of devices there that will allow me to extract the truth even from a zombie.” A gleam came into his demon eyes, and he bared his teeth once more. “This is going to be a lot of fun.”
He jabbed the Argentum Perditor into my side, and the metal claw hurt like a bitch. I had to grit my teeth to keep from reacting.
“Let’s go. That way.” He nodded eastward, in the direction I’d just come from. Seeing no other recourse for the time being, I nodded, turned around, and started walking down the sidewalk, Gilmore at my side, the Argentum Perditor aimed at me.
We walked for several minutes in silence after that. I kept a close eye on the pedestrians we passed, hoping to spot a familiar face. I have a lot of friends in the city, and even more enemies, and any one of them might provide a way to distract Gilmore. But I didn’t see anyone I knew, friend or foe. And I couldn’t rely on Devona to come to my rescue. The voicemail I’d left for her said only that I was on my way home, and once she heard it, she’d have no reason to suspect I was in trouble and come racing to Ruination Row to help me. It looked like I was on my own.
We’d just passed High Stakes, an extreme piercing parlor run by a descendent of Vlad Tepes, and were approaching a Sawney B’s, a fast-food joint for cannibals on the go, offering such delectable treats as lady fingers, marrow shakes, and homunculus nuggets. A trio of Bloodborn stood on the sidewalk in front of Sawney B’s, sipping plasma shakes. Given that Bloodborn are for all intents and purposes immortal, it’s difficult to tell their ages by looking at them, but I knew these there were young as vampires went. Older Bloodborn feel uncomfortable around technology, if they don’t disdain it completely. But younger ones tend to embrace it, often to the point of getting themselves cybernetically augmented. Genetic and technological alteration wasn’t uncommon for the Darkfolk, considering that their supernaturally strong constitutions allowed them to withstand medical procedures that would kill a human being.
These three vampires—two male, one female—were almost completely clad in metal, making them seem as if they were wearing suits of armor. Wires, cables, and gears were visible at their joints, and their eyes had been replaced by small holoprojectors that glowed with internal green light. Their heads had been shaved, the woman’s too, and their left incisors had been painted a bright ruby red. The latter was the calling card of the Red Tide, a vampire street gang that was one of the most deadly in Nekropolis. Even for their kind, they were considered vicious killers, and they had one other important quality: they were notoriously sensitive about their cyber implants.
As we drew closer, I called out, “What are you guys drinking? Motor oil?”
Gilmore jabbed the Argentum Perditor into my side, and I couldn’t keep from wincing. I hoped he hadn’t noticed.
One of the males, this one of Asian descent, turned to look at me, his green eyes shading red.
“Shut up, smart-ass, or we’ll stick our straws in your carotid and see how you taste,” he snarled.
The woman, who was black, let out a high-pitched laugh that had an electronic edge to it, as if she had a synthesizer unit attached to her vocal cords.
“I’m not afraid of you junk-heaps,” I said. “Looks to me like your warranties are about up.”
Gilmore leaned over to whisper in my ear. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work. Keep walking.”
But we weren’t able to do that. The three cyber-vampires dropped their shakes and, traveling so swiftly they were little more than blurs, they moved into the street to block our way. All of their eyes glowed red now.
The second male, who was white, looked me up and down, then wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Where the hell have you been, man? Smells like you just swam a few laps in a sewer.”
His companions laughed.
“I’m surprised your nose still works,” I said. “I figured you’d have an air filter or something stuck in there.”
The cybervamp snarled, grabbed a handful of my shirt, and pulled me close to him. Around us, pedestrians had either stopped to watch the incipient mayhem or they were giving us plenty of room as they moved quickly to get out of our way. The attention was just what I wanted. I hoped Gilmore would be reluctant to use the Argentum Perditor in front of an audience in order to avoid anyone suspecting he was the Silversmith.
Of course, now that I’d pissed off a trio of vampires, I had to find a way to keep them from killing me.
“You need to show more respect for the Red Tide,” the cybervamp said in a low and deadly voice. His breath smelled foul, like rotten meat, and I had to fight to keep from gagging.
“Maybe a brainwipe would teach him some manners,” the girl said, grinning.
The Asian vamp nodded eagerly. “Do it!”
The Bloodborn who had hold of me smiled, and his holo-eyes glowed a darker red. “This is going to hurt. A lot. On the plus side, once I’m finished, you won’t remember it. But that’s only because you won’t remember anything.”
He opened his mouth and extended his tongue. The end split bloodlessly in two to reveal a thin black wire with a silver needle on the tip. I understood what he planned to do with me. The wire was going to shoot forward like a striking serpent and the needle would imbed itself in my skull. The cybervamp would then send a jolt of energy into my brain, scrambling it and erasing my memories. When he was finished, not only wouldn’t I know my name, I wouldn’t even remember that there were such things as names.
I had only a split second to do something, but I had no idea what. I’d grown so used to relying on my zombie state to get me out of trouble that I couldn’t think of any way to avoid getting mindwiped. It looked like my attempt to get away from Gilmore had backfired, and while I’d still be alive when it was over, I’d no longer be me.
“Enough of this foolishness,” Gilmore said. He pointed the Argentum Perditor at the three Red Tide vampires and the claw on the end glowed with a bright silvery light. All three of the gang members turned to look at the claw, transfixed by its glow, and as I watched, the metal of the cyber-implants transformed into silver—and silver is highly poisonous to Bloodborn.
The flesh connected to their implants instantly began to smolder and blacken, and the cybervamps shrieked in agony. The one that had been just about to mindwipe me released me, and all three of them began to tear at their implants, as if desperate to remove the silver that was poisoning them. They fell to the ground, shrieking and clawing at their bodies, and Gilmore looked down at them, smiling with satisfaction.
“I do so enjoy my work,” he said. Then he looked at me and jabbed the Argentum Perditor into my side once more. “No more tricks. Understand?”
I nodded, and we stepped around the screaming vampires and continued heading eastward.
Evidently, I’d been wrong about Gilmore. He wasn’t worried about revealing his true identity. Then again, it wasn’t as if the existence of the Argentum Perditor was common knowledge. Maybe he was counting on no one being able to associate the three silverfied Red Tide vamps with the Silversmith. Or maybe he just didn’t give a damn. Demons can be like that.
We’d gone less than half a block before coming to a bar I’d passed earlier called Born of Man and Woman. It was a humans-only place, one of the few in the city, and a number of its patrons were standing on the sidewalk, watching us as we approached.
“I’m warning you,” Gilmore said as we drew closer. “Don’t say a word.”
The half dozen men and women weren’t exactly the shy, retiring type.
They were well muscled, heavily tattooed and pierced, and clad in denim, leather, and steel-toed boots. Humans need to be tough to survive in Nekropolis, and only the toughest can hope to hold their own in Ruination Row. It looked to me like these men and women were right at home here.
The tallest of them was a middle-aged man with long brown hair and a full beard. He had a wicked-looking scar on his right cheek, and wore an Apocalyp-tica T-shirt beneath a leather vest, and in his right hand he gripped the rubber-coated handle of an aluminum bat. He stepped forward to meet us as we approached.
“We heard there was trouble on the street with some Redfangs,” he said in voice roughened by too much booze and too many cigarettes. “We came outside to see what was up. That was some mighty powerful magic you used to deal with them, demon.”
“Just a little spell to overload their circuits,” Gilmore lied smoothly. “Nothing special about it. Now if you’ll excuse us . . .”
Gilmore made to step around the man, but he raised his bat to block the demon’s way.
“My name’s R.J. I own the joint.” He nodded to the bar. “It’s a kind of oasis, you know? A place where humans can go to be around their own kind and relax.”
Gilmore struggled to keep the irritation out of his voice as he spoke. “That’s all very interesting, but I don’t see—”
R.J. interrupted. “We humans look after each other here in Ruination Row.” His gaze flicked to me, then returned to Gilmore. “Looks to me like you’re forcing this man to accompany you. That doesn’t sit well with me, demon, and it doesn’t sit well with my friends.”
The other men and women gathered on the sidewalk shot Gilmore dark looks as they murmured their agreement.
Gilmore looked at R.J. for a moment before throwing back his head and laughing.
“You think this man is human? That’s hysterical! This is Matthew Richter. The zombie detective?”
R.J. looked at me again, more closely this time. “Heard of him. Can’t say I know him.” He inspected me a moment longer before adding, “Skin looks like that of a living man.” He reached out, gently pinched a bit of my cheek between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it around a bit. “Feels real,” he said and he pulled his hand away.
Gilmore frowned. “Take a look at his clothes,” he said.
“So the man’s a mess,” R.J. said. “That doesn’t make him a zombie.”
I was beginning to worry. The last distraction I’d tried to arrange hadn’t worked out so well, and the last thing I wanted was for R.J. and his friends to be transformed into silver statues. I needed to find a way to end this—fast. If only I’d still been a zombie, none of this would have . . .
Then I realized I’d been going about this all wrong. I’d been thinking of being human as a weakness. Instead, I should have viewed it as a strength.
I carry all sorts of weapons on my person, and some of them have sharp edges. While Gilmore’s attention was on R.J., I reached into one of my pockets and found a switchblade. I clicked it open and ran my index finger along the edge of the blade. Then I removed my hand and held it up for everyone to see.
Gilmore goggled as he looked at the line of blood trickling from the wound on my finger.
I smiled at him. “Like you told me, I didn’t say a word.”
Gilmore spun toward R.J. and raised the Argentum Perditor, but he was too late to avoid getting a face full of aluminum. Demons are tougher than humans, but not tougher than half a dozen. R.J.’s friends moved in and started working on Gilmore, punching and kicking, and it didn’t take long before the demon was lying on the ground, moaning in pain, his arms and legs bent at awkward angles, his face swollen, bruised, and bloody.
When my fellow humans stepped back, I bent down and pried the Argentum Perditor out of Gilmore’s hand and tucked it into my pocket. I wiped the blood from my finger on Gilmore’s shirt before straightening. Then I turned to R.J.
“Thanks for the help,” I said. I offered my hand to shake, and R.J. grinned as he took it. The man’s grip was strong and warm, and it felt good to shake another man’s hand—another living man’s—and really feel it.
“No problem,” he said. “All the Darkfolk can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but demons really annoy me.” He gave Gilmore a last half-hearted kick the ribs, and the demon moaned loudly. R.J. turned back to me. “You want to come on in and have a drink? It’s on the house.”
I was tempted. It had been several years since I’d tasted anything, and a drink sounded damn good right then. But I had somewhere very important to be.
“I’ll have to take a raincheck,” I said. “But I want to thank you all one last time. Lately, I’ve been worrying that Nekropolis isn’t the best place for a human to live, but now . . .” I smiled. “Now I think it’s not so bad.”
R.J. smiled. “Not so long as we watch out for each other.”
We shook hands one last time, and I headed west once more, while R.J. and his friends returned to their bar. We left Gilmore lying on the sidewalk, moaning and trying to find the strength to get to his feet. I knew the demon would recover, and eventually he’d come looking for me, determined to make me pay for what I’d done to him, but right then, I didn’t care. All that mattered to me was getting home, putting my arms around the woman I love, and for the first time since I’d met her, knowing what it felt like to touch her.
BENEATH THE SILENT BELL, THE AUTUMN SKY TURNS TO SPRING
Eugie Foster
The bell at Dojoji temple pealed at noon to mark the day’s peak. Its voice was silver and light, water kissed by the sun. It matched the tolling in Alan’s head, the same tone, the same cadence, even the same tempo—each reverberating note sounding in tandem with the phantom bell haunting him. For the first time in almost a year, ever since he’d started hearing the incessant ringing, he felt hope.
Ryoseki looked up from his meditations to find Soryo Kuro and Soryo Yusai standing before him, their heads bowed.
“Forgive the intrusion, Sensei,” Kuro said. “There has been some commotion in the shōro. One of our visitors is demanding to purchase the temple bell, and even though we have explained to him that this is impossible, he refuses to desist.”
The old priest did not seem surprised by this, although no one had ever made such an outrageous request before.
“I will take care of it,” he said.
Alan jittered from one foot to the other, pacing around the belfry’s stone perimeter, wishing he could light up. He didn’t care what his doctor said, the patch did nothing for his nicotine cravings. He checked his watch again. Where had those priests gone to anyway?
At the end of his circuit around the shōro, Alan startled. The old man in the saffron robes seemed to materialize out of nowhere, standing placidly and gazing up at the huge bronze bell as though he were as solid a fixture as the stone Buddha statue in the courtyard.
The man bowed, un-stonelike. “I did not mean to startle you. I am Ryoseki, Dojoji’s jūshoku.”
“Jūshoku. That’s head priest, right? Finally, someone in charge.” Alan reached for the pack of Dunhills in his suit jacket only to stop mid-motion with a scowl. “I want to buy this bell. I don’t care how much it costs. And don’t give me some crap about not needing material goods. Your temple does charity work. Think of what you could do with an extra million or two for homeless orphans or blind puppies or whatever cause you like. And I’m talking U.S. dollars, not yen.”
“That is a very generous offer. May I inquire what you will do with our bell once you are in possession of it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I see.” Ryoseki contemplated the bell’s ornate rim where a pattern of curlicues was stamped into the metal. “You are American, yes? Will you be wanting to relocate it overseas? It is quite heavy. Many tons.”
Alan frowned. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, which was unlike him. He never made an acquisition bid without thorough research and a prospectus plan and strategy. But this bell was different, more import
ant than abstract numbers and profit margins, essential to have no matter the cost.
“And the shōro will need to be disassembled,” the priest continued. “Or did you wish to purchase that as well?”
“You think I’m joking?” Alan yanked the sterling silver case from his pocket and extracted an embossed business card. “My name is Alan Brandt. Maybe you’ve heard of me? I have the means to buy what I want, and I want this bell.”
Ryoseki accepted the card and its inked pedigree—CEO, EMBA, CFA—with a polite nod. “Did I do something to indicate that I was not treating your request with the utmost sincerity? That was not my intention. I merely wished to know if you had already considered the practical aspects of this transaction or if I could offer any suggestions.”
“Don’t you want to know why I want it?”
“I would be glad to hear your motivations.”
Alan studied the other man’s face. Was he mocking him? He was an astute reader of expressions. He had to be in his line of work. But the priest’s cordial facade gave away nothing.
“For the last year, I’ve had a bell ringing in my head at noon and midnight,” Alan said, “every single day, without fail. You’d think twice a day wouldn’t be that bad, but I can’t concentrate, can’t sleep, can’t do anything but count down the minutes until the next time it rings. I’ve seen neurologists, otologists, neurotologists, and psychiatrists, been scanned, probed, and psychoanalyzed. They can’t find anything. My board is on the verge of ousting me with a ‘no confidence’ vote, and I can’t blame them. I’m utterly distracted. And it’s getting louder.”
“Yet though you are tormented by the tolling of a bell,” Ryoseki said, “you wish to possess ours.”
“That’s right. Because when it rang at noon, it sounded exactly like the one in my head. I don’t know what it means, but it’s important.”
“So it is.” The priest turned on his heel.
“Hey, where are you going?”
Human for a Day (9781101552391) Page 16
