The Nekropolis Archives

by Tim Waggoner

  I generally don't have much use for the Arcane, as they tend to think a little too highly of themselves, but I had to admit that was a nifty trick. I felt a hand grab my shoulder then, and out of reflex I drew my 9mm and jammed the muzzle into the soft flesh behind Lazlo's chin. Luckily, I had enough presence of mind not to fire… although as awful as the demon looked, he could probably stand to have his facial features rearranged a bit.

  "You need to get into the cab, Matt!" Lazlo shouted, seeming not at all intimidated by having a gun pressed against his throat. "We're leaving!"

  "What the hell are you–" I heard a tearing sound then and looked down to see that Lazlo's cab was, for lack of a better word, shedding its tires. Thick strips of black rubber peeled away to reveal clawed lizard feet instead of metal rims, and the vehicle's chassis began to rise as scaled legs extended from the wheel wells. Evidently, the cab had decided not to stick around for a fleet of tow trucks to arrive and clear away the wrecked and stalled vehicles clogging the bridge, which – since it looked as if there wasn't going to be a bridge in a few moments – was a very smart move.

  I'd long ago given up questioning the bizarre nature of Lazlo's cab and had decided to do my best to appreciate its quirky charms, especially when they saved my undead ass. I holstered my gun, and Lazlo and I hopped back into the cab. Before we slammed the doors shut, the cab fully extended its legs and began racing forward, scuttling between and, when necessary, crawling over the mass of unmoving vehicles as it made a beeline – or in this case, a lizardline – for the Sprawl side of the bridge. Lazlo's cab has no seatbelts (he feels they only cause passengers to doubt their driver's capability), and so Devona and I held on to each other as best we could as the cab surged forward. Varney, who up until this point hadn't had occasion to experience the special surprises that Lazlo's cab served up from time to time, looked about as bewildered as you might imagine. Still, he was a professional cameraman, and he hurriedly rolled down his window, crawled halfway out, and used all his vampiric strength to hold onto the roof for support while he filmed what was happening.

  The cab had made it halfway across when all three Arcane women released blasts of mystic energy from their staves at different points of the bridge to devastating effect. First, they targeted the supports beneath the bridge, then they fired again, this time shearing through the bridge's surface, cutting it into separate pieces. Cracks appeared in the glossy black substance of the Obsidian Way, and the loud groaning of slowly twisting metal filled the air. It was quickly followed by shouting and screaming as terrified motorists abandoned their vehicles and began running to get off the bridge before it collapsed. Some of the fleeing drivers had the misfortune to get in the way of Lazlo's cab, and they were either knocked aside or trampled as the lizard-legged vehicle raced pell-mell toward the Sprawl. Four more Lesk rose from Phlegethon's fiery waters to attack the Arcane, but they met with no more success than their predecessor. A few blasts from the magic-users' staves was all it took to deal with the serpents. One exploded in a shower of what looked like dandelion fluff, one's flesh ran off its skeleton like melting wax, one turned into several thousand minnows, and the last shrank down to the size of an earthworm before falling back into the river.

  The damaged bridge shuddered beneath us, and the cab lurched as it fought to maintain its footing. The railing collapsed, the bridge listed to one side, and the Obsidian Way – already cut into three pieces – shattered into dozens of jagged fragments that then began to slide toward the blazing green waters of Phlegethon. Vehicles and fleeing drivers tumbled into the river, the Darkfolk screaming all the way down, though their screams ended abruptly once they were claimed by Phlegethon's fiery embrace. The cab's lizard claws scuttled frantically for purchase on what remained of the Obsidian Way, broken fragments of the road shifting beneath its feet as it ran. The cab slipped and slid, and more than once I thought we would fall into the river and be lost. But when the cab was within twenty feet of the Sprawl side, it hunkered down, coiled its leg muscles, and then sprang forward with a mighty leap just as what was left of the Bridge of Nine Sorrows collapsed completely. The cab soared through the air, and Varney pulled himself back inside with a panicked yelp as the bridge – and those unlucky enough not to get off it in time – plunged into the river, gouts of water splashing upward with accompanying bursts of green flame.

  The cab landed on the broken edge of the Obsidian Way where the bridge had torn away from the road, and it scrabbled with its back legs to keep from falling into the water. It was close, but the cab managed to climb up onto the road, where it collapsed, exhausted.

  "You OK?" Devona and I asked each other at the same time. We nodded in answer, then we climbed out of the cab, along with Varney and Lazlo, and surveyed the devastation that the Arcane had wrought. The bridge and its occupants were gone, swallowed by Phlegethon, and the river's roiling fiery surface was slowly becoming calm once more. The three witches remained hovering in the sky, and the raven rider spoke, her voice once again magically augmented so that it could carry for miles.

  "Tell Varvara she has twenty-four hours, and not a moment more!"

  And then light erupted around the three Arcane women, and when it was gone, so were they. A teleportation spell, I assumed.

  "What in the name of Oblivion was that all about?" Varney asked. While he gazed at the river's surface, continuing to film, he sounded quite shaken.

  "I believe that is what's known as an attention-getter," I said. If Varvara wasn't already aware of the attack on the bridge, she soon would be, and I doubted the Demon Queen was going to take the news calmly.

  "It's more than that," Devona said, sounding just as shaken as Varney. "It's an opening salvo."

  I had a bad feeling she was right.

  Devona stepped closer to the broken ledge and peered down at the river. She was six feet to the left of Varney and stood even closer to the edge than he did. I was still standing next to the cab, and I felt extremely uncomfortable seeing Devona so close to the edge. I wanted to call out and tell her that she should step back, that it wasn't safe, but I hesitated, mindful that the last thing she wanted was for me to babysit her. I decided I'd rather irritate her than risk her falling, and I opened my mouth to ask her – in as non-patronizing a manner as I could manage – not to stand too near the edge. But before I could say anything, a chunk of the Obsidian Way – already cracked from the bridge's collapse – beneath Devona's feet broke into several fragments, slid out from under her, and tumbled toward the river. Devona's feet slipped, she lost her balance, and started to pitch forward.

  For a horrible instant, time seemed to stand still, and I saw Devona slide, arms flailing, in the process of following the stone fragments down into Phlegethon's deadly flames. I was too far away to reach her in time, even if I had normal reflexes, which as a zombie, I don't. Half-vampires don't possess the ability to assume travel forms, and her psychic powers were restricted to telepathy for the most part, so there was no way she could fly or use telekinesis to save herself. She was a dead woman, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  But then Varney was standing next to her, gripping her upper arm to steady her as he pulled her back from the edge.

  "Careful," he said, smiling. "You taking a nose-dive into Phlegethon might make for some spectacular footage, but it would be a real downer." His smile turned into a grin. "No pun intended."

  "Thanks," Devona said, looking shaken, and then she and Varney returned to the cab.

  I thanked Varney too, said something about him not being entirely useless after all, and we got inside the cab and Lazlo drove off. Or maybe I should say he lizard-legged off. I was quiet as we traveled. Full-blooded vampires can move hellaciously fast when they want to, but I hadn't seen Varney move at all – not even a blur. One moment he'd been nowhere near Devona and the next he was right beside her, saving her life. The whole thing struck me as way too mysterious man-of-action for Varney, the airheaded hippy cameraman. Then again, I'd only known him
a short time and I'd done my best to ignore him for most of it. Maybe there were other sides to him that I just hadn't experienced yet. I told myself just to be grateful that Varney had reacted swiftly enough to keep Devona from falling into Phlegethon. But something about the whole thing raised my suspicions – which, given what I do for a living, isn't all that hard to do, I'll admit – and I decided to keep a closer eye on Varney to see what other surprises he might have in store for us.

  SIX

  We continued on our way to Papa Chatha's house, the vehicle trotting down the cramped streets of the Sprawl on its lizard claws. The motion felt odd, but overall the ride was smoother than usual, and since I'd had enough of being shaken around during the bridge's collapse, I was grateful.

  Lazlo turned the radio to Bedlam 66.6, and we listened to an announcer report the news of the destruction of the Bridge of Nine Sorrows as well as the Bridge of Forgotten Pleasures. It seemed that after the three witches had finished with the first bridge, they had teleported to the second – which connected the Sprawl to the Wyldwood – and destroyed that as well, once again delivering the message that Varvara should return the abducted magic-users. The Sprawl was now cut off from its neighboring Dominions, and I didn't want to think about how furious Varvara would be. There was a reason she was queen of the demons, and it had nothing to do with her having a sunny disposition. According to the report, Sentinels – Father Dis' police force – were on the scene to assist with the rescue efforts, and while I was confident the golems would prove immune to Phlegethon's fire, I doubted they'd find anyone alive to pull out of the river.

  I felt as if we should do something to help, but I had no idea what. Open conflict between Darklords was rare – they usually preferred to conspire against one another in secret and strike through intermediaries – but if Talaith and Varvara were going to mix it up on the streets of Nekropolis, the best thing to do was to stay the hell out of their way and hope not to get caught in the crossfire. Better to mind our own business and go visit Papa.

  The Sprawl is a wild mishmash of architectural styles – ancient, medieval, Renaissance, colonial, Victorian, art deco, Bauhaus, modern, and post-modern, interspersed with bizarre structures that can only be classified as alien. You can find a sleek glass and steel office building sitting next to a lopsided lumpy monstrosity that looks like a mound of suppurating tumors, and a quaint little antique shop nestled next to a business housed in a gigantic hollowed-out skull. Considering the Sprawl is the Dominion of the Demonkin, the mad disregard for even the basics of urban planning makes a kind of nightmarish sense, and it certainly makes navigating by landmarks easier. In what other city can you tell someone to hang a left at the building made from intertwined spinal columns and continue north until you come to something that looks like a gigantic diseased pancreas?

  Papa Chatha lives in a little shack that wouldn't be out of place in a bayou on Earth. The worn gray wood could use some paint, the black shingles on the bowed roof need replacing, and the windows could stand to be washed and the cracked panes swapped for new ones. But compared to some of the more surreal structures in the Sprawl, Papa's shack looks almost cheerfully normal. Besides, it's something of a second home for me, the place I come when I need a fresh application of preservative spells, a quick repair job, or – just as often – a good game of rattlebones, an understanding smile, and a sympathetic ear. After Devona, Papa is my best friend in Nekropolis, always there when I need him, and always understanding if it's going to take me a while to scrounge up enough darkgems to pay him for his services. And in a town where there are literal loan sharks who'll devour you if you're so much as a few minutes past your payment deadline, such understanding when it comes to settling a debt is indicative of the deepest levels of friendship indeed.

  Papa's shack sits between an eye-scream parlor and a florist's that featured a half-off sale on Audrey II's. Lazlo pulled his cab up to the curb in front of Papa's, and the vehicle retracted its lizard legs and lowered itself to the ground.

  "Here you go," Lazlo said. "Safe and sound, as usual."

  "Safe I'll grant you," I said. "The jury's still out on sound, though."

  Lazlo let out one of his raucous laughs that sound like a cross between a donkey's bray and an explosive blast of flatulence.

  "You never stop kidding, do you, Matt?"

  Varney, Devona, and I climbed out of the cab, and I had to resist the urge to hold out my hand to help Devona out. She wasn't so far along in her pregnancy that she needed assistance, and I didn't want it to seem like I was patronizing her. When we were all out, I leaned inside the front passenger window.

  "You going to wait for us or do you have somewhere to be?" I asked Lazlo.

  "I should go home for a bit," Lazlo said. "My sweetie needs to eat so she can regenerate her tires, and she could probably use a nap to help her recover from all the excitement. Isn't that right, dear?" He patted the dash and a loud purring sound came from under the cab's hood.

  I had no idea Lazlo had a home. Given the way he always appears whenever I need him, I'd just assumed that he lived in his cab. After all, from what Devona tells me, the cab certainly smells like he lives in it. And I didn't want to think about what the cab might eat.

  I thanked Lazlo for the lift, he gave me a parting wave, and the cab stood once more on its lizard legs and trotted off down the street. Varney's gaze tracked the departing vehicle, his cyborg camera-eye no doubt recording its departure.

  "You know" he said, "even for Nekropolis, that thing's weird."

  I didn't know if he was referring to Lazlo or the cab, but either way, I couldn't help but agree. We walked up to the front door of Papa's shack and I knocked. He didn't answer right away, but that wasn't unusual. Like a lot of magic-users, Papa's often conducting one experiment or another, and sometimes he's so engrossed in what he's doing that he doesn't hear people knocking. Or if he does hear, he chooses to ignore them. So I knocked again, louder this time, and called out, "Papa, it's me – Matt!" A few more moments passed, but I still didn't worry. Papa tends to be something of a homebody – after all, he works out of his shack – but he regularly leaves to go shopping for supplies. Even the most skilled practitioner of voodoo magic has to run out to the store to pick up a bag of severed rooster claws now and again. And while Papa wasn't much for the Sprawl's party scene, I'd known him to hit a club or two in his time. So when he didn't answer, I merely chastised myself for not calling ahead first to see if he was home before we stopped by. I turned to Devona, about to ask her what she wanted to do now, when the door opened.

  I expected to see Papa Chatha looking out at me: a dignified bald black man in his sixties with a blue butterfly tattoo spread across his smooth-shaven face. The person looking through the crack at me was black, but that's where the resemblance ended. She was a pretty girl of thirteen or so, medium height – which made her taller than Devona – with long straight hair that stretched almost down to her waist. She wore a purple pullover dress that reached to the ankles of her bare feet, and no makeup or jewelry. She gazed at me with startling eyes, the irises so dark blue they were almost black. They made her seem far older than her apparent years, which in Nekropolis is always a possibility.

  "May I help you?" she said. Her voice held an almost musical quality, but her words were precisely enunciated and her tone formal, almost as if she were speaking a language foreign to her.

  I almost said, And you are? but I remembered my manners. "We're here to see Papa Chatha."

  She looked past me at Devona and Varney. She must've decided they didn't appear too suspicious because she then turned her attention back to me and asked, "Are you clients of his?"

  "We're friends. At least, she and I are," I said, nodding toward Devona. "Is Papa home?"

  Her expression grew solemn. "No," she said, "and that's the problem."

  We were gathered in Papa's workroom. Whenever I visited Papa, whether professionally or personally, the two of us usually hung out here, and it was where I
felt most comfortable. Besides, for some reason it seemed like an invasion of Papa's privacy to use his living quarters when he wasn't home.

  Papa's workroom contained everything a self-respecting houngan needed: chemical-filled vials, jars filled with ground herbs and preserved bits of animals – raven wings, rooster claws, and lizard tails – all sizes and colors of candles, rope of varying lengths twisted into complex patterns of knots, voodoo dolls made of horsehair and corn shucks, tambourines and rattles lying on tabletops next to piles of books and scrolls. To the untrained eye, it looked like things were placed haphazardly about the room, but I knew better. Papa keeps everything just where he wants it, and just because his system of organization isn't immediately apparent doesn't mean he doesn't have one.

  I leaned against a workbench, arms folded over my chest, Devona standing next to me. Varney stood on the other side of the room in the corner, the better to film the entire room, I supposed. The girl, who'd introduced herself as Shamika, sat on a high stool, bare feet dangling several inches from the wooden floor.