The Nekropolis Archives

by Tim Waggoner

  Devona didn't say anything at first. I don't know if it was because she was too disgusted to answer, or whether she was actually thinking it over. After all, she was a half vampire.

  "No, thank you. I fed earlier."

  I hadn't seen her drink any blood during the time we'd been together, and I wondered if she was lying, or if perhaps she'd managed to sneak a quick snack while we were separated at the Cathedral.

  "Pity," the ghoul said. "You don't know what you're missing." A verman hurried up with a full tankard. Arvel opened his mouth and the rodent poured the gore straight down his gullet. The ghoul didn't even have to swallow.

  Carbuncle returned then, carrying a pair of the simple wooden chairs that everyone else in the place but Arvel was using. The rat-man set them down at the table, took a few steps back, and waited for more orders, his whiskers twitching nervously.

  Devona looked at me and I nodded. I wasn't feeling especially sociable, but my years as a cop taught me that sometimes it's better to go along with the program if you want to loosen someone's tongue. We sat.

  Arvel was brought another mouthful of meat followed by a mug of blood. As he devoured them, I said, "This is certainly an… interesting place you have here."

  He belched loudly. "Pardon me. Yes, it's quite nice, isn't it? Though I dare say that has everything to do with my delectable Sweetmeat. Dr. Moreau over at the House of Pain created the dear thing for us, using a combination of vampire and shapeshifter DNA, mixed with a few special ingredients of his own, of course. The Sweetmeat's wounds heal almost instantly, and it quickly replaces the flesh and blood it's lost – as long as we keep it well fed with the special nutrient solution the good Doctor developed. For all intents and purposes, the Sweetmeat is immortal. It will live – and taste delectable – forever." Arvel shook his head, or rather, wobbled it from side to side a fraction. "Whenever I take another delicious bite of the Sweetmeat, I wonder why some of the Darklords are so against importing human technology from Earth."

  I thought of the misbegotten thing trapped in Arvel's pit, constantly being bled and cut for the ghoul's patrons. And if what Arvel said was true, the creature was immortal and could conceivably suffer this treatment for eternity.

  "I can think of a few reasons," I said.

  Arvel ignored the dig. "Tell me, Mr. Richter, is it true what they say? That you're responsible for Lady Talaith's recent ill fortune?"

  "I'd really rather not discuss it, if it's all the same to you."

  More meat, more drink. "Ah, but there is something else you wish to discuss, no?" He licked a smear of red from his lower worm-lip. "Quid quo pro, Mr. Richter. We ghouls have an ancient aphorism: You feed me, and I'll feed you." He smiled smugly. I wanted to punch him in the mouth, but I'd probably just have shredded my hand on those teeth of his.

  "Yes, it's true. But it was a couple years ago, when I first came to Nekropolis."

  "Please, go on."

  I sighed. "My partner and I were investigating a series of killings on Earth. There was no connection between the victims' age, race, gender, economic status, or location. The only similarity was in the way they were killed. Each victim showed no signs of having been in a struggle. It was as if they'd all just dropped dead, despite the fact that all of them were healthy with no history of serious medical conditions. Autopsies revealed something else strange: a tiny segment of their frontal lobe was missing – despite the fact that their skulls had all been intact before their autopsy."

  "Sounds like quite a mystery," Arvel said as he chewed another in his endless mouthfuls of meat.

  "It was. To make a long story short, through dogged detective work and more than a little luck, my partner and I tracked the killer down to a park near the lake. But just as we were about to catch him, the killer disappeared through a strange shimmer in the air."

  "A portal," Arvel said.

  I nodded. "Varvara's. My partner Dale and I followed, and found ourselves in the basement of the Demon Queen's lair. The killer was gone. It took a bit for us to acclimate to Nekropolis–"

  Arvel laughed. "I imagine it did!"

  "But once we had our bearings, we continued to search for the killer. At first, we thought the warlock had ties to Varvara, but we learned Talaith had been using the Demon Queen's portal because hers had been damaged in a previous struggle with Lord Edrigu. When we learned the truth, we headed to Glamere, determined to bring the killer back to Earth to face justice."

  "And what happened?" Arvel's black eyes were shining; he was hanging on to my every word as if were a child being told a favorite bedtime story.

  So I continued.

  NINE

  I stood with my back flattened against a smooth wooden wall, 9mm held easily at my side in my right hand, a small device gripped tightly in my left. The corridor was lit by a series of gently glowing blobs of yellowish light hovering near the ceiling, and the shadows they cast seemed to slither across the floor as if possessing a life of their own. From what I'd seen of this insane city so far, I knew it was quite possible that the shadows really were alive, and I reminded myself to keep an eye on them. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck and across one of the many small wounds covering my body. It stung, and I started to take in a hissing breath of air out of reflex, but I forced myself to take a deep, calming breath instead.

  You swore an oath to serve and protect, Matt. And even if you are a bit out of your jurisdiction, that's exactly what you're going to do.

  My partner stood next to me, gun held ready as he peered around the corner.

  "How many?" I whispered.

  Dale pulled his head back and turned to face me. "Two," he said, speaking softly. "Both male, big and tough-looking. The corridor stretches a long way – a couple hundred feet, easy – and they're standing guard in front of a large wooden door at the end of it. No obvious weapons that I could see."

  "They don't need to carry physical weapons," I reminded him. "Not in this place."

  "Don't I know it."

  Dale Ramsey was a lean African-American man in his early fifties. His short black hair was starting to grey at the temples, and the lower half of his face was covered with thick stubble. People thought he did that to look stylish, but I knew it was because he often forgot to shave, sometimes for days. He wore a sharp-looking blue suit and, despite his slightly scruffy physical appearance, his outfit was dry-cleaned and neatly pressed as always. Dale had been my partner in the homicide division for the last five years, though I'd known him even longer, all the way back to when I'd started on the Cleveland force as a patrol cop and he was working Vice.

  Thin lines of blood trickled from tiny wounds peppering Dale's forehead, and he bent his head forward and used his tie to wipe away the blood so it wouldn't run into his eyes. He'd used his tie instead of the back of his hand because his hands – like mine – were covered with similar wounds and were bleeding too. Not a lot, certainly not enough to be life-threatening, but definitely inconvenient.

  Dale looked at the new smear of blood on his tie and grimaced. He hated getting his clothes dirty. "Who uses a barrier of animated thorn bushes as security? I mean, really."

  "Just be glad we got through without being sliced to bits."

  "I think that little lizard you picked up in the Sprawl helped some," he said.

  "Salamander. They're amphibians." At least, I thought the creature I'd used to clear a path through Talaith's thorn barrier was an amphibian. The dealer who'd sold it to me had said the small bright-red animal was a salamander in the mythological sense, meaning that it blazed with intense magical fire when threatened. I didn't care what species it was, just as long as it worked as advertised. When Dale and I approached the thorn barrier surrounding Woodhome, and I'd had to do was removed the little guy from my pocket, and toss him into the thorns. The instant one pricked him, he opened his tiny mouth and let loose a blast of flame that would've done Godzilla proud. The salamander's fire-blast cut a swatch through the thorns, and Dale and I had to r
un like hell to reach the entrance to Woodhome before the barrier closed up again. We'd made it, but not without getting pricked, scratched, and slashed in the process. I didn't know what had happened to the salamander, but I wasn't worried. As the little guy had so amply demonstrated, he could take care of himself.

  I was only sorry that the creature's magical fire hadn't been strong enough to set Woodhome itself ablaze. But from what I understood, Talaith wasn't only a witch, she was a Dark Lord – one of the most powerful beings in Nekropolis. And that meant her stronghold was protected by some serious magic, and since it was basically a gigantic tree – really a living mass formed from dozens of huge ancient trees intertwined – she'd been smart enough to fireproof it. But not, it seemed, smart enough to do the same to her thorn barrier. Or maybe she simply hadn't wanted to waste the magic on her thorns. I didn't know from magic, and I had no intention of learning. Dale and I had come to Woodhome for one reason: to track down the warlock who'd been killing people in Cleveland and bring him to justice. After that, Dale and I would head home and this place would be nothing more than a nightmare that both of us would work damned hard to forget.

  Inside, the corridors and chambers of Woodhome looked as if they'd been grown instead of built. The ceiling, walls, and floors were smooth but somewhat uneven, and instead of running straight, the corridors had a tendency to curve right or left, up or down. There were no signs to help us tell which way to go, but I'd picked up a few other items in the Sprawl besides the salamander, and one of them was the object I held in my left hand.

  "You sure this is it?" he asked.

  In response I held up the compass. Beneath the glass was the tiny figure of a skeleton lying flat, right arm stretched over its head, index finger pointing toward the wall – or rather, toward the chamber on the other side of the wall.

  "How are we supposed to know if that thing's working right? Or if it is working, it's functioning as advertised?"

  I shrugged and tucked the compass into one of my jacket pockets. "It's supposed to locate sources of powerful magic. And if what the seer in the Sprawl told us is true, what we're looking for should be the most powerful device in this place. Besides, I can't think of any other way to find this Overmind thing. Can you?"

  Dale made a face as if he'd just taken a bite of what he thought was prime rib only to discover someone had snuck a turd onto his plate when he wasn't looking. "I hate this place. I like to keep things simple: good guys, bad guys, witnesses, and evidence. I could do without all this hocus pocus."

  "You and me both, partner," I said. "But when in Rome…"

  "I've never been to Rome, but I'm confident it's nothing like this shithole." He sighed. We'd worked together for so long that I knew Dale's quirks and mannerisms as well as my own. Better, in fact. That sigh was Dale expelling the last bits of tension from his body as he geared up for action. He raised his gun and fixed me with his soft brown eyes. "You ready?"

  I reached into one of my pockets with my left hand and took out a small mirror.

  "Let's do it."

  Without another word, we turned the corner and started running down the corridor.

  The guards were exactly as Dale had described – big and meanlooking, but then they were guards: that was how they were supposed to look. They were two of a kind, Literally, they were twins. Both wore their black hair pulled back in ponytails, both sported Vandyke beards, and both wore black tunics, black pants, and high black boots. I'd only been in Nekropolis a couple days, but I'd already learned that in this city, black was the new black. The warlocks looked surprised at first to see us, but they only hesitated a few seconds before raising their hands and gesturing wildly as they prepared to throw some very nasty magic our way.

  The twins' hands began to glow with silver-tinted energy, and Dale and I poured on the speed.

  "That damned mirror better work!" Dale shouted.

  "Look on the bright side," I yelled. "If it doesn't, we'll be dead before we find out!"

  Before Dale could come back with a witty rejoinder, the twins thrust their hands forward, sending a pair of lightning bolts crackling down the corridor toward us. Still running, I held out the mirror in front of me, and it drew the lightning toward its glossy surface and swallowed it whole. The glass vibrated and grew hot in my hand as it struggled to absorb the mystical power of the twins' strike.

  "How many spells is that thing good for?" Dale shouted.

  "Three," I said, "so we have two–" My words cut off as the mirror exploded in my hand, glass shards piercing the soft flesh of my palm.

  "Fuck!" I shouted. My hand was bleeding like crazy and hurt like a sonofabitch. I lost momentarily lost my concentration and started to stumble, but Dale caught hold of my elbow and steadied me. "Make that one," I said through gritted teeth. Whether on Earth or in Nekropolis, it seemed you couldn't trust a goddamned street vendor.

  Dale and I had covered half the distance to the chamber at the end of the corridor, but the twins started gesturing and chanting once more, both of them grinning with dark anticipation. They had us and they knew it.

  Still running, Dale and I raised our guns and started firing. One thing about spellcasters: it's hard for them to shift gears when they're in the middle of working an enchantment. Our aim wasn't perfect, but it was good enough, and several 9mm slugs slammed into the warlocks, and while their black tunics might've been the latest in magical guard chic, the cloth didn't do a damned thing to stop bullets. By the time Dale and I reached the wooden door, the twins had slumped to the floor, bleeding from their wounds. Dale had gotten his twin twice – once in the shoulder, once in the gut – and I'd hit mine in the chest. Both were still alive, but they were in too much pain to concentrate on working any hoodoo on us.

  If we'd been on Earth, Dale and I would've cuffed the two warlocks and called for an ambulance. But this was Nekropolis, and even if it wasn't we didn't have time to do things by the book. Dale and I slammed our gun butts into the twins' heads, and they fell onto their sides, unconscious. I knew there was a chance one or both of them might die from their injuries, but they were warlocks. There was an equally good chance they'd find a way to heal themselves soon. At least, that's what I told myself to assuage my conscience.

  Dale took a second to check his weapon. "I'm out of ammo."

  "Me too." And neither of us had reloads. We'd used up all our bullets over the last couple days just surviving long enough to get this far. I holstered my gun, and Dale did the same. "Guess we'll just have to improvise," I said.

  "Fair enough." Dale grabbed the door handle, but before he opened it, he said, "How much you want to bet there's no lock on it?"

  "Who needs locks when you have a pair of beefcake warlocks to guard your secret chamber of evil?" I said.

  Dale laughed as he opened the door, and we rushed inside. I'd been expecting the chamber to be like the rest of Woodhome – smooth, barkless wood – but instead it was spherical and covered with glimmering metal panels. The chamber reeked of ozone and overheated circuitry, and a low thrumming filled the air, the sound of a powerful machine in the process of warming up. In the middle of the room was a huge pinkish mass the size of a bull elephant. Its wrinkled surface was slick with blood, and dozens of black cables extended from its pulpy substance out to different points on the walls and ceiling.

  This was the Overmind.

  Dale and I stopped to look at the obscene thing.

  "I thought brains were gray," he said.

  I shook my head. "That's only after they've been preserved. Inside our skulls, they look like that: all pink."

  Dale and I weren't alone in the chamber, though. There were two others standing before the Overmind. A male warlock with long flowing blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard standing next to a handsome middle-aged woman with short black hair. The warlock wore a dark red robe – not quite black, but close enough, I supposed – while the woman was garbed in an oldfashioned Puritan dress of severe black-and-white. I didn't recognize the war
lock, but I had a pretty good idea who the woman was: the Dark Lady Talaith, ruler of Glamere and mistress of the Arcane.

  Dale immediately fixed his attention on the warlock. "Let me guess. You're the sonofabitch who's been killing people in my town back on Earth." We'd tracked the killer down in Cleveland, even watched as he'd disappeared back through Varvara's mirror portal, but neither of us had gotten that good a look at him. But now, standing here gazing at the bastard, both Dale and I knew this was our man.