Dark War

by Tim Waggoner

  A middle-aged Arcane man – dressed as an Elizabethan nobleman in doublet and breeches, complete with a broad ruffled collar – stepped forward and scowled at me.

  “This is none of your business, Richter,” he said, speaking with an accent that sounded more Brooklyn than English. “This is between us and the hellrats.”

  The demons, who had begun recovering from the effects of the binding spell the moment the Arcane stopped chanting, had risen to their feet. They snarled upon hearing the derogatory term and fixed baleful gazes on the Arcane man, many of which were literally smoldering with hate.

  I was mildly surprised he knew who I was, but I suppose I shouldn’t have been. Even for Nekropolis, I’m a one-of-a-kind monster. And I had garnered a certain amount of fame over the last few months.

  A demon spokesperson stepped forward then.

  The creature appeared to be formed from lumpy mounds of yellowish fat, making its gender impossible to determine, but when an orifice opened in its rough approximation of a head, the voice that came out was distinctly female, if a bit liquidy.

  “You don’t speak for us, wand-waver,” she snarled.

  “Now, now, children,” I said. “Name-calling isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

  “They started it!” the Elizabethan warlock said.

  “We were minding our business in the club when a group of them came in and told us that we were no longer welcome in the Sprawl.”

  “No, your people started it!” the lumpy demon said. “Several of you materialized inside our club and enchanted the music system so that instead of disco it began playing chamber music!” She shuddered at the thought, and a number of her fellow demons did likewise. I thought both types of music sounded equally horrid, but then there’s no accounting for taste, especially when it comes to demons.

  I glanced back at Shamika and Scorch. The demoness had shaken off the effects of the binding spell, but she remained standing on the sidewalk next to the girl. It wasn’t like Scorch to hang back when there was trouble, and I guessed she was suppressing her more violent urges because she didn’t want to leave Shamika unprotected. When it comes down to it, Scorch is a pretty decent sort for a demon, not that I’d ever tell her that. She’d probably set me on fire for insulting her.

  “All right, so you guys don’t like each other,” I said. “Now that we’ve established that, why don’t you return to your respective clubs and get back to boogieing down or whatever the hell it is you people do for fun that doesn’t involve trying to kill each other.”

  Lumpy looked at me. At least, I think she did. It was hard to tell since she had a complete absence of facial features. “Don’t you keep up with current events, zombie? Their people destroyed both of the Sprawl’s bridges!”

  The warlock sneered at her. “Only because your people have been kidnapping magic-users!”

  “I know you Darkfolk are only too happy to have an excuse to tear into one another, but are you really this stupid?” I asked. “The Weyward Sisters destroyed the bridges. I ought to know: I was on one of them when they did it. And as for the disappearances, so far there’s no proof who’s behind them. But I can tell you this much: whoever’s behind this, all Demonkin didn’t abduct the magic-users, and all Arcane didn’t destroy the bridges. So why fight with each other?”

  Lumpy and the Elizabethan warlock looked at me for a moment and then looked at each other.

  “He makes a lot of sense, doesn’t he?” the warlock said.

  “That he does,” Lumpy agreed.

  They fell silent for a moment.

  “I hate people who make sense,” Lumpy said.

  “Me too.” The warlock pointed a finger at me, and a beam of white energy shot forth and struck me on the chest. At the same instant the warlock spoke a single word: “Discerpo!”

  I didn’t feel anything, but I suddenly found myself unable to support my own weight. My legs fell out from under me, and I tumbled to the ground. My head hit the asphalt and bounced a couple times before coming to a stop. My face was pointed toward the rest of my body, which lay in a haphazard pile, but I could see that my hands and feet were no longer connected to their corresponding limbs.

  Both the Arcane and Demonkin laughed at my predicament, and I supposed I should be grateful that I’d managed to unify them, if only for a moment and not exactly in the way that I’d hoped to.

  Devona knelt by my head. “Are you OK, darling?”

  “I’m fine.” I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “After all, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve lost my head.”

  The warlock grinned in delight. “Did you like that? It’s a spell of my own devising, one designed to split a person apart. While it’s nothing more than an inconvenience for you, it’s usually fatal – not to mention a hell of a lot messier – for living folks.”

  His grin took on a nasty edge. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

  He pointed his finger at Devona and shouted, “Discerpo!”

  As before, a beam of light lanced forth from his finger, and even if I hadn’t fallen to pieces, I knew I wouldn’t have been fast enough to get Devona out of the way in time. But just as he had at the Bridge of Nine Sorrows, Varney moved with incredible speed, grabbed hold of Devona’s shoulders, and snatched her out of the beam’s path before it could strike her. With nothing to stop it, the beam of mystic power continued streaking through the air toward the section of sidewalk where Scorch and Shamika stood. Scorch tried to get the girl out of the way, but the beam was moving too fast and it struck Shamika. She was momentarily wreathed in sparkling light, and then she fell in upon herself, collapsing onto the ground in what appeared to be hundreds of small pieces.

  I didn’t have time to wonder why the spell had affected her differently than it had me. Scorch howled with a mixture of fury and sorrow, and she spun to face the warlock. She began running toward him, her teenage girl guise fading as she assumed her true fire demon form, her clothes vanishing as her body outgrew them. The warlock looked momentarily taken aback – the sight of a fully grown and enraged fire demon coming at you tends to do that – but then he pointed his finger (which was only shaking a little) at Scorch, readying to use his separation magic on her.

  Varney still had hold of Devona, and though she struggled to free herself of his grip – no doubt so she could attack the warlock too – he held her tight.

  As fast as Scorch was, there was no way she could reach the warlock before he unleashed another blast of magic at her, and if Devona couldn’t get away from Varney to stop the warlock, Scorch was a goner. And as a severed head lying on the street, all I could do was watch.

  “Well, now, what are you children up to?”

  The voice – an elderly woman’s – was gentle and kind, but there was something about it that caught the attention of everyone in the street, and all heads turned to look at her. Scorch stopped running, and the warlock lowered his hand without releasing another bolt of magic. They, like everyone else, focused their gazes on the newcomer. Her crimson cape came within an inch of brushing the ground, and it was trimmed with silvery fur, as was her hood which she wore up, cloaking her features in shadow. She wore a tunic and leggings, both of forest green, and brown boots. In her thin, age-spotted hands she carried a pair of silver daggers that, despite the gloomy half-illumination provided by Umbriel, somehow still seemed to glimmer and glint in the light.

  No one spoke. No one moved. No one dared breathe. Most of them probably hadn’t seen her in the flesh before, but they all knew who she was, and they were all terrified of her.

  She stopped when she reached me – or my head, anyway – and looked down. Within the shadows of her hood, her thin lips stretched into a smile.

  “Hello, Matthew. It’s good to see you. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner, but I had to finish my tea.”

  “No problem, Granny. A woman has to have her priorities.”

  Her smile widened. “I’m so glad you understand.”

  She turned to
look at the Elizabethan warlock and the lumpy fat demon. “You’ve had your fun. Now why don’t you all head on home like good little dears, hmm?”

  Several of the demons and magic-users in the crowd began to slowly move away, but the Elizabethan warlock, though shaken, held his ground.

  “You don’t scare us, Granny Red. You might be something of a legend, but so what? Nekropolis is chock-full of beings just as famous as you, and most of the time they don’t live up to the hype.”

  I looked at the warlock. “Some friendly advice: if you want to live, you will turn around and haul ass in the opposite direction as fast your little Shakespearean shoes will carry you.”

  The warlock sneered down at me. “I’m Arcane!

  I’m not afraid of some old wo–”

  That’s as far as he got. Granny Red stepped forward almost nonchalantly, her knives flashed in the air, and then she stepped back. The warlock stood for a moment, eyes wide with shock, blood gushing from a dozen wounds, and then he toppled to the ground, dead.

  Granny turned to the crowd, the warlock’s blood dripping from her silver knives.

  “Anyone else like to show Granny how tough they are?” she asked sweetly.

  Demonkin and Arcane alike decided that discretion was the more sensible part of valor, and they turned and fled en masse. When they were gone, Granny walked over to the warlock’s corpse, cleaned her blades on his clothes, and then tucked them into sheaths on her leather belt. Varney had kept hold of Devona the entire time, but he let go of her now, and she came over to me and picked my head up. Her mind reached out to me.

  Is that really her? she thought.

  Yes. Granny Red, the most feared monster killer in history. A myth made flesh, a bedtime story told to so many children over the centuries that she came to life, birthed from the collective unconscious of the human race. She was a young girl when she started out, of course, just like in the story, and she began by hunting werewolves. But she branched out as she got older, and when the Darkfolk moved to Nekropolis, she followed. Everyone fears her, including, I suspect, the Darklords themselves.

  I’d first met Granny when I was trying to track down a murderous cyborg lyke who called himself the Megawolf. She’d been on his trail too, and we’d ended up working together to take him down. I have to admit that Granny scares me too. As much as I don’t like to think about it, I am a monster, and slaying monsters is her one and only purpose in life.

  In many ways, she’s as single-minded in her motivations as a great white shark – and ten times as deadly. And because she’s literally a living legend, she’s intimidating as hell, truly larger than life – or maybe in her case, larger than death.

  Granny turned to Devona and smiled. “I’d heard Matthew had found himself a nice girl. I’m so pleased to meet you, my dear.”

  Granny held out her hand, and Devona tucked me under one arm while she reached out and shook Granny’s hand. I was impressed to see that my love trembled only a little as she clasped hands with Granny. Granny gave her hand a gentle shake and then released it. Devona kept a smile fixed firmly on her face, but I could feel her tension through our telepathic link. Granny has killed more than her fair share of vampires over the centuries.

  Granny lowered her gaze to me. “It looks like you’re quite literally in good hands, Matthew, so I think I’ll go back and have another cup of tea. It was lovely to see you again. And remember–”

  “Don’t talk to strangers,” I finished for her.

  She grinned, nodded, and walked casually back to The Teahouse of the Gibbous Moon. Only when she was inside and the door closed did we relax.

  “So that was Granny Red. How interesting.”

  Devona turned – which was good, since I wasn’t at the moment capable of doing so – and I saw Shamika had joined us in the street.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “and I’m very glad you’re OK, but I thought you were blasted into pieces by the warlock’s spell.”

  She laughed. “You call that a spell? A reasonably competent Arcane child can cast spells stronger than that! It was simple enough to reverse.”

  I reached out to Devona through our link, and I could sense my love’s skepticism. Devona isn’t Arcane, but she specializes in security, both mundane and mystical, and is therefore quite knowledgeable about magic. I could sense that Shamika’s words didn’t ring true with Devona. It was something that needed to be looked into – later. Right now we, or at least I, had more pressing problems.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” I said to Devona, “I’d appreciate it if you could try to put this Humpty together again.”

  NINE

  We were only a couple of blocks from Varvara's stronghold when Scorch announced that she had to use the little demons' room. When I just looked at her, she said, "What? My natural form may be big, but when I'm in this shape, my bladder isn't much larger than a pea."

  I wanted to ask her why demons needed to urinate at all, but I decided there are some things which, despite my naturally inquisitive nature, I'm better off not knowing. We stopped at at a Sawney B's, and Scorch entered the faux cave exterior in order to use the restaurant's restroom. Considering that the place is named after the infamous Scottish cannibal and serves fast-food items like lady fingers, marrow shakes, and homunculus nuggets, I hate to think what the restroom conditions are like. Darkfolk or human, one thing that unites both species is that females for some unknown reason seem compelled to visit restrooms in packs. Once we'd stopped, Devona decided she needed to go too, and she asked Shamika if she wanted to come along. The girl looked confused for a moment, as if she was unsure how to respond, but then she nodded and followed Devona inside the restaurant, leaving Varney and me to wait outside.

  I leaned back against Sawney B's plastic cave wall and crossed my arms over my chest. Thanks to Papa Chatha's spell, I was managing to keep my various body parts holding together, but it took constant concentration. If I allowed my mind to wander too far, I would feel myself start to lose cohesion, and I had to be careful if I didn't want to go all to pieces again. The warlock's spell had severed my head, arms, hands, legs, and feet from my body. I felt more like a scarecrow than I did a zombie, with joints that could bend in any direction, and movements so loosey-goosey I felt like a comical marionette whose strings were being pulled by a half-drunken puppeteer. Papa had told me that the enchantment that allowed me to keep a severed piece of myself attached to my body would remain effective for about twenty-four hours. But he hadn't said anything about trying to keep multiple severed body parts attached. I wondered how long I would be able to keep up my scarecrow act before I fell apart and stayed that way. I didn't think I was in any danger of being a permanent collection of undead puzzle pieces, not as long as I could find a magic-user to fix me up – or I could always pay a visit on Victor Baron. He once reattached my head, and he could easily do the same for the rest of me. But I didn't want to take time out for repairs. I wanted to find Papa and the rest of the magic-users and stop the conflict between Talaith and Varvara before it erupted into all-out war.

  I was grateful for the women's need to take a pit stop, though, for it gave me a chance to be alone with Varney. I had a few questions I wanted to ask my vampiric shadow.

  Varney stood next to me, his head swiveling slowly back and forth as his gaze scanned the street.

  "Filming?" I asked.

  "Just some background footage," he said. "Never know when it'll come in handy. Not much going on here, though. The streets are practically deserted."

  "We're close to Demon's Roost. If Varvara really is preparing for war, she's probably had her people cordon off the blocks around her stronghold."

  "If that's so, then how will we get through?"

  I smiled. "The same way I get through anything else. Boyish charm and rugged good looks."

  Varney gave me a skeptical glance but didn't say anything.

  "You were filming when we broke up the riot between the Arcane and the Demonkin, ri
ght? I mean, you're always filming, but I assume you were paying special attention then."

  "Sure thing. I got some great stuff!"

  "I bet you did. Did you happen to get any footage of Shamika being blasted by the warlock's spell?"

  He frowned. "I think so. I can't review the footage mentally. I need a Mind's Eye set to transmit it to, but yeah, I think I shot that. Why?"

  "Just curious. Curiosity is one of the prime qualities of a good private detective, you know. For example, I'm curious about you, Varney."

  "Me?"

  "You saved Devona from falling when the rest of the Bridge of Nine Sorrows collapsed. And you pulled her out of the way when the warlock tried to blast her. Don't get me wrong: I'm very thankful that you did, but I find it awfully convenient that you should just happen to be in the right place at the right time… twice."

  He shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess."

  "Maybe. Except I don't really believe in luck, Varney. You know what I do believe in? People with hidden agendas who pretend to be something they aren't."

  Varney looked at me for a long moment. "Dude, you are way cynical. You need to cultivate a more positive outlook. I know a guy who teaches meditation to Bloodborn to help them control their thirst-rage. Maybe you should give him a call sometime."

  "Or maybe you should just come clean and tell me what your game is."

  Varney looked at me, and his organic eye narrowed in cold appraisal. For a moment I thought he might break down and tell me what I wanted to know, but then the women came out of the restaurant and rejoined us.

  Devona held two cups with straws in them, and she handed one to Varney. "It's just aqua sanguis, but it should take the edge off your thirst."

  Aqua sanguis is a synthetic blood substitute produced in the Sprawl. It tastes like blood but doesn't provide any nourishment. For the Darkfolk, it's like the equivalent of diet soda. From what I've been told, it tastes rather weak, hence the slang term for it: redwater. Devona's not against drinking real blood per se. Officially, humans aren't considered prey by law in Nekropolis, and any real blood served in bars and restaurants either comes from willing donors or from specially cloned donator bodies produced by Victor Baron. But that doesn't stop some of the more unscrupulous blood suppliers from snatching a human or two off the street now and again, and – like humans on Earth who boycott tuna because of fishing practices that ensnare dolphins – some of the more socially conscious Darkfolk choose to drink aqua sanguis instead of blood whenever possible.