by Tim Waggoner
Though all of Nekropolis's many and varied types of Darkfolk were represented in the Broken Cross, the club was a favorite with Bloodborn, and they predominated tonight. One of the things about vampires, especially the younger ones, is that because of their supernatural healing abilities, they go in for the most extreme forms of entertainment. Not so much because they enjoy pain more than anyone else, but because of how much physical punishment they can take. For example, in one corner of the Broken Cross, a vampire who called himself Anklebiter – appropriately enough, since he appeared to be no more than three years old – was taking on all comers in a one-on-one, no-holds-barred mixed martial arts battle. Whoever was dumb enough to accept Anklebiter's challenge got to make the first move. Anklebiter then got the second, which was also usually the last. In another corner, a vampire wearing only a pair of black shorts stood with his back against the wall, while a group of enthusiastic knife throwers used him for target practice (no silver blades allowed, though).
Perhaps most disturbing of all was Mimi the Conflagration Artist. She danced naked in an iron cage that hung down from the ceiling above the middle of the dance floor, just below the holographic torture scenes. She thrashed and writhed along to the music while flames licked at her pale undead flesh. Before performing, she slathered her body with a chemical that kept the fire from burning too fast or too hot, so it wouldn't devour the flesh before her Bloodborn physiology could repair the damage. I'd had occasion to speak with her a time or two, and I'd once asked her if she enjoyed her work. She'd shrugged and replied, "At the risk of making a terrible pun, it's a living."
Devona leaned close to my ear and shouted in order to be heard over the racket. "How are we supposed to find Varma in this chaos?"
"The same way we've been doing: we start asking around."
I caught sight of Patchwork the Living Voodoo Doll on the dance floor, and I took Devona by the hand and led her over to him. Patchwork was gyrating bonelessly to the throbbing dance-club beat, arms and legs flopping about wildly. As his name implies, Patchwork is made up of cast-off scraps of cloth, all different sizes, patterns, and colors, and he has two large black buttons for eyes. I have no idea how he sees with those things, but then I also can't figure out how he can stand upright with no skeletal system.
Patchwork is a hair under six feet tall, and while he normally had dozens of hat pins sticking out of his body, he'd thoughtfully removed them before starting to dance. That, or he'd lost them all doing his whirling dervish act and they were scattered across the floor, or had become embedded in his fellow dancers.
The music was so loud that I had to lean close to Patchwork's ear – or at least where an ear would've been if he'd had one sewn on – and shout.
"Hey, Patch! I'm looking for a vampire named Varma!"
Patchwork shook his head. "Never heard of him, but you want me to put a hurt on him for you?" Patch's voice sounded like rustling cloth and came from a small flap of a mouth sewn into the bottom of his face. "Free of charge for you, Matt!"
Despite his somewhat whimsical appearance, Patchwork was one of the deadliest beings in Nekropolis. All he needed was a personal token of a target – a photo, a piece of clothing, or better yet a lock of hair or a nail clipping – and wherever he stabbed himself with his pins, his target felt the pain. Depending on his clients' wishes, Patchwork could simply annoy a target, make life miserable for him or her, temporarily or permanently disable them or – if he jabbed a long enough, sharp enough needle into the right place on his artificial body – kill them.
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm trying to locate Varma, not perforate him!" I shouted.
"Suit yourself! Let me know if you change your mind! You might ask Fade, though. I saw her over at the bar not too long ago!"
Then Patchwork spun away like a cloth top and lost himself in the pounding beat once more.
I turned to Devona. She was watching Patch's performance and bobbing her head from side to side in time with the music. Earlier, she told me she didn't get out of the Gothtown much. I wondered if what she'd really been saying was she didn't get out of the Cathedral often. It was quite possible she'd never been to a nightclub before. I felt the urge to start dancing with her, but I checked it. I knew we didn't have time to waste on such foolishness… plus I'd never been the greatest dancer when I was alive, and my damaged and swiftly rotting zombie body wasn't going to help that situation any.
I led Devona off the dance floor and we wended our way through the crowd and headed toward the bar. We found Fade deep in half-drunken conversation with a vampire named Ichorus. Outwardly Fade looked like a normal club-crawler – early twenties, petite, purple lipstick, dark green eyeshadow, long brunette hair past her waist, black combat boots, little black dress that fit her in all the right places, and a pair of barbed-wire hoop earrings that were almost as large as her head. Fade has a problem, however. She's reality-challenged. For reasons she keeps to herself, her existence is so tenuous that if she isn't careful to constantly reinforce her own reality, she's in danger of vanishing into nothingness, hence her nickname. So in order to ensure her survival she had to make sure to see and be seen, which was why she spent almost all her time club-hopping. The more time she spent alone, without anyone around to validate her existence, the more she risked fading away completely. That's also the reason she took a job as gossip columnist for the Daily Atrocity. Knowing everyone, whether they liked it or not, made her perfect for the job, and the more people that read her byline, the more anchored she was in reality.
She looked pretty solid right then. Descension Day was always a good time of year for her. Tons of people for her to interact with – and right now she was interacting with Ichorus.
One of the Accords that came out of the Blood Wars set limits on air travel in Nekropolis in order to make it more difficult for the Dark Lords to attempt sneak attacks across Dominion borders. No one is permitted to travel by air over Phlegethon, for example, and everyone – whether possessing the power of flight or not – has to use one of the Five Bridges to travel from one Dominion to another. Ichorus doesn't just hate the restriction imposed on air travel; he utterly loathes it and does everything he can to fight it.
He's a stereotypical vampire type: tall, lean, dark-haired, handsome. But what makes him stand out is the pair of huge ebon wings growing out of his back. The feathers are made of lightweight super-strong metal, and their edges are razor-sharp. Whether they're magical or some kind of technological augmentation, I don't know. Ichorus goes shirtless because he refuses to constrain his wings, so he wears only a pair of black pants. No shoes either, but I don't know if that's because it helps him fly or he just doesn't like shoes. His chest is covered with dozens of criss-crossing scars, the result of numerous less-than-welcome receptions he gets from flying throughout the Dominions in defiance of the Accords. Since he's a vampire and can heal any injury, his scars are a testament to how seriously the Darklords take anyone transgressing on their airspace – and how strongly they and their servants will fight to stop him. But Ichorus still flies on, undeterred in his endless quest to defy authority.
We approached the pair and asked them about Varma. Ichorus didn't know him, but of course Fade did; she knew everyone, as a matter of self-preservation, if nothing else. But she hadn't seen him tonight.
"Go check with Shrike," she said. "I was talking to him earlier over by the VR booths." She gestured vaguely toward the other side of the club. I thanked her and reached out and briefly patted her arm. She smiled gratefully. Talking with people helps her maintain reality, but I knew that being touched helped her more.
Before Devona and I could walk away, Ichorus said, "I've got a big flight planned next week, Matt! I've heard rumors of an invisible moon that orbits around Umbriel, and I'm going off in search of it! Should be quite an adventure!"
Fade grinned at him. "Should make quite an article for the Atrocity."
Devona looked at me and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"D
on't look at me. I've never heard anything about a moon in Nekropolis, invisible or otherwise." I turned back to Ichorus, shook his hand, wished him luck, and then Devona and I went off in search of Shrike. True to Fade's word, we found him by the Mind's Eye virtual reality booths.
Despite Shrike's chronological age, which I had no way of knowing, he resembled a skinny boy in his teens. His hair was a wild tangle of black the same shade as his deliberately ragged t-shirt and pre-torn jeans. He was talking on his handvox, everpresent cigarette in his mouth. As he exhaled, he became transparent, solidifying again only when he took his next puff. Handvoxes have the same basic design as Earth cellphones, except they're made – or maybe grown – from flesh. There's an ear for you to speak into, and a mouth that relays the words of whoever is on the other end, and which speaks in their voice, too. I find the damned things more than a little disconcerting, especially when the person on the other end tries to make the vox's mouth kiss, lick, or even bite you. That's why I hardly ever use mine.
Shrike saw us approaching, shut his handvox, and tucked it into his pants pocket. He grinned, displaying his elongated canines.
"Matt!" He had to shout to be heard over the din. "What the hell are you doing here? This isn't exactly your kind of scene." Then he looked at Devona, ran his gaze along her body from foot to head, and back again. "Wow. Your taste in friends is definitely improving, my man."
"Shrike, this is Devona Kanti. Devona, this is Shrike."
"Lord Galm's kid? Cool." He took a battered pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and held it out to Devona. "Want one?"
Devona shook her head. "No thanks."
I noticed the brand: Coffin Nails.
I nodded toward the pack. "The name's a cute touch."
He grinned again. "I like to think so," and put the pack back in his pocket.
I don't know why he carries the pack around. In all the time I've known him, I've never seen his cigarette burn down, no matter how many drags he takes on it.
"What's up, Matt? You've got to be working a case. I can't imagine any other reason why you'd be here." He leaned toward Devona as if about to confide a secret. "The man's sense of fun is as dead as the rest of him." Then he looked at me and frowned. "Say, you all right, Matt? You're not looking too fresh, if you know what I mean." He pointed to the wounds on my face.
If I was alive, I could've run my fingers over my cuts to check their condition. As it was, I'd just have to wait until I came across a mirror. But from Shrike's comment, I doubted they looked very good. Injuries don't hurt zombies, but they do tend to start rotting before the rest of the body.
"You're not looking all that hot yourself, kid," I said. "Maybe you should think about trying the nicotine patch."
Shrike grinned. He always gets a huge kick out of my calling him kid. Probably because he's a hell of a lot older than he looks.
He put an arm around my shoulder and addressed Devona. "If it wasn't for this guy, I wouldn't be here today. Hell, I wouldn't be anywhere today! I love this guy!" and then he planted a loud, wet kiss on my cheek, despite its less-than-attractive condition.
"Get off of me, you lunatic!" I said good-naturedly as I shoved him away.
Devona laughed. "Another favor?" she asked me.
I nodded. "Shrike got himself into trouble over at the House of Dark Delights a while back."
"One of their girls accused me of making her Bloodborn without her permission. I was innocent, but it took Matthew to prove it. Good thing, too. Madam Benedetta was so mad, she'd sicced a Soulsucker on me." He frowned. "Or was it Master Benedict who did it? Whichever. I still get nervous when I think about it." He took a long drag on his cigarette, his hand shaking slightly.
Me too. Defeating a Soulsucker isn't easy. I still have a few psychic scars left over from that battle.
"So what can I do you for, Matt?" Shrike said, cheerful again. "You name it, you got it."
I removed one of the evidence envelopes from my jacket and handed it to him. "Know what this stuff is?"
He opened the envelope, stuck his finger inside, and brought out a couple of the white grains I'd gathered in Lord Galm's Collection chamber. He smelled them, then took his omnipresent cigarette out of his mouth and gingerly touched his finger to his tongue.
His reaction was immediate. "Jesus Christ!" As soon as the holy name passed his lips, his mouth burst into flame.
I grabbed a beer out of the claw of a demon at a nearby table and splashed Shrike in the face, hoping to douse the fire. It worked: the flames died, leaving Shrike's lips charred and his tongue blackened.
"I've told you before, kid, you've got to be careful what you say when you're upset!"
The demon had risen from his chair, and was coming toward me, his leathery gray lizard hide turning battle-angry red. I tossed a couple darkgems at him – her? it? who could tell? – to pay for another beer and that ended the matter.
"Do oo know what dis stuff is?" Shrike said as best he could with his ravaged mouth.
"No, that's why I asked."
He looked around to see if anyone was listening, then leaned forward. "It's veinburn." He leaned back. "Ashully, it's prolly a good thin' I swore. Maybe burned ou' the shit 'efore it got inna my shystem."
"C'mon, Shrike, it was only a couple grains."
He took a puff on his cigarette, and while his mouth didn't heal all the way, it improved noticeably. I bet the Surgeon General would've been surprised to see that.
"It doesn't take much to get you hooked." His speech was a little clearer, too. "Where'd you get it?"
"Never mind. Is it new? I've never heard of it before."
"New and nasty. It's really strong and highly addictive – even for Bloodborn."
Bingo. Sometimes I love being a detective – doing favors for people. "Who produces it?"
"I don't know. But I wouldn't be surprised if the Dominari have a piece of that particular action."
"Makes sense." I said. "I've got another question for you."
"Shoot." Shrike's mouth was almost completely healed now, just singed a little around the edges.
"You seen a vampire named Varma tonight?"
"Varma? You mean the one who's Lord Galm's bloodchild, right? Yeah, sure. He was out on the dance floor last I saw him. That was probably, oh, an hour ago, maybe less."
"Think you could make a quick circuit of the club for me, see if he's still here?"
"Sure. Be back in a minute." He took a deep drag on his cigarette, became solid, and blew out a long stream of gray-white smoke, his body turning transparent as the smoke left his lungs and then fading altogether until he was gone. The smoke Shrike had blown out wafted purposefully toward the dance floor.
"That's his travel form?" Devona asked. "Interesting."
"Yeah, Shrike's got his own style, that's for sure."
She leaned close to me so I could hear her better over the music. "I've been thinking. I have an idea of how Varma might have been able to get into the Collection chamber and past the wardspell on the Dawnstone."
"Go on."
"Even though Varma isn't biologically Lord Galm's child, the transference of blood necessary to turn a human into a vampire makes him Galm's son in a metaphysical sense. It's possible that since the door to the chamber and the wardspell both are keyed to recognize and permit access only to Lord Galm, they could be made to recognize someone who shares the same blood – provided this someone had the right magical help."
"Are you sure?"
"Remember, I'm no mage; I was taught only enough magic to monitor the spells on the Collection chamber. But from what I understand, it might be possible."
The way things were going, the Dawnstone would be back in Lord Galm's Collection before he returned from the Renewal Ceremony. Devona would hang on to her position and her dignity, and maybe, just maybe, she could convince her father to help me stave off my dissolution.
I should've known better. Life – and death – is never so easy.
"Matthew
Richter?"
I turned around. "Yes?"
Before me stood a tall raven-haired woman in a red mini dress. She might have been pretty if her features hadn't been so sharp, her expression severe. Her eyebrows met in the middle. A sure sign she was a lyke.
"My name is Thokk. Honani and I were littermates."
Her dress ripped away as she began to change.
ELEVEN
Thokk was a mixblood, like Honani, but where he'd turned out a hodgepodge mess, whoever engineered her had done the job right. She was primarily lupine, the most common wildform for lykes. After all, as Waldemar once told me, the word lycanthrope comes from the Greek: lykoi for wolf and anthropos for man. But the term, and its abbreviated version, lyke, has become common parlance for any of the shapeshifters under Lord Amon's rule. Still, Thokk displayed signs of other animals in her mixblood lineage too – her stomach was hairless and scaled, resembling a snake's, and her gray fur held a greenish tint. Her eyes were reptilian as well, cold and staring, and when she opened her canine jaws, long, curved fangs sprang forward, glistening with venom.
